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witb: life asi) s'otes 

A.€IDfMl[SM©MAM. E'^q. 

ILLUS TRATED. 




Wins tie , and til come to you, mj lai . 



PKIIADELPHIA, 
T^ILXIS To IL12AJKD. 190 CHESTXTT m:. 



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POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS, 



WITH 



LIFE, NOTES, AND GLOSSARY: 



BT 



L CUNNINGHAM, ESa 



WITH 



Iganii SUnBtratiBus nn ^t«L 



PHILADELPHIA: 

WILLIS P. HAZARD, 190 CHESTNUT ST. 

1857 



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Initiatory Remarks 3 

Life . . . - ■ 12 

The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie - - 111 

Poor Mailie's Elegy " 113 

Epistle to Davie 114 

Address to the Deil 117 

The Auld Farmer's Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie 120 

Halloween -------- 122 

A Winter Night - 127 

Epistle to J. Lapraik 129 

To William Simpson 134 

Death and Dr. Hornbook 138 

The Holy Fair 142 

The Ordination - 147 

To James Smith 150 

The Jolly Beggars — A Cantata - - • • 154 

Man was Made to Mourn 161 

lo a Mouse -.--,-- 163 

The Vision - - 164 

The Author's Earnest Cry and Pra} er • - - 170 

Scotch Drink - • - 174 

Address to the Unco Good 177 

Tarn Samson's Elegy 179 

Despondency - - - • - - - - 181 

The Cotter's Saturday Night ... - - 183 

To a Mountain Daisy 187 

Epistle to a Young Friend 188 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. - - - 190 

A Dream 193 

A Bard's Epitaph 196 

The Twa Dogs 196 

Lament 202 

Addi-ess to Edinburgh 203 

The Brigs of Ayr 205 

On Captain Matthew Hendei*son - - • - - 210 

Tam 0' Shanter 213 

Tragic Fragment 217 

Winter, A Dirge - - 218 

A Prayer under the Pressure of Violent Anguish - - 218 

A Prayer on the I .spect of Death - - - - 219 

Stanzs on the same Occasion 219 

Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux - - - 220 

The Calf 220 

The Twa Herds, or the Holy Tulzie ... - 221 

Holy WiUie's Prayer 223 

Epitaph on Holy Willie 225 

Epistle to John Gondie, of Kilmarnock . - • 226 



lY CONTENTS. 

PAOH 

A Fragment, inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox • 276 

On seeing a Hare limp by me, which a Fellowhad just shot 276 

The Kirk's Alarm, a Satire 276 

To Dr. Bhicklock 279 

DeHa 280 

Sketch, New- Year's Day 280 

Prologue, spoken at the Dumfries Theatre . . . 282 

Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit Night, Dumfries 282 

To a Gentleman who had sent the Poet a Newspaper . 284 

Peg Nicholson 284 

To my Bed 285 

First Epistle to Ur. Graham, of Fintry ... 285 

The Five Carhnes 287 

Sf3Cond Epistle to Mr. Graham, of Fintry ... 290 

On Captain Grose's Peregrinations through Scotland . 292 
Written in an Envelope, enclosing a Letter to Captain Grose 294 

Address to Beelzebub, to the Presdt. of the Highland Soc. 294 

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots .... 296 

The Whistle 297 

Elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo .... 299 

Lament for James, Earl of Glen cairn .... 299 

Lines sent to Sir John Whiteford, Bart. . , , 301 
ThirdEpistletoMr. Graham, of Fintry . . .301 

Fourth Epistle to Mr. Graham, of Fintry ... 303 

The Rights of Woman 304 

To Mr. Maxwell, on his Birth-Day .... 305 

On Pastoral Poetry . . ^ 305 

Sonnet, on PI earing a Thrush Sing . . . 307 

The Tree of Liberty 307 

To General Dumourier 309 

Lines sent to a Gentleman whom he had ofiended . , 309 

Monody on a Lad}- Famed for her Caprice . . 310 

Epistle from .^soi)us to Maria 310 

Lnpromptu on Mrs. Riddel's Birth-day . . . 312 

Sonnet on the Death ol" Captain Riddel . . 312 

A Vision 313 

Liberty, a Fragment 314 

Verses to Miss Graham, of Fintry .... 314 

The Vowels, a Tale 314 

Verses to John Rankine 315 

On Sensibility 316 

Address Spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on her Bene£t Niglit 316 

To Chloris 317 

Address to the Shade of Thompson .... 3I8 

iiallads on Mr. Heron's Elections — Ballad First . 318 

i^uiiad Second — the Election 319 

Ballad Third— an Excellent New Song . . . 321 

On Life 323 

Inscription for an Altar to Independence . . , 324 

On the Death of a Favourite Child , , . 324 

1 o Mr. Mitchell 325 

The Biiined Maid's Lament 325 

I'he Dean of tlie Fjiculty 326 

\'crses on the Destruction of the Woods near Drumlanrig 327 



CONTENTS. V 

PAGB 

Epistle to John Rankine 226 

Third Epistle to John Lapraik . - - - . 227 

Epistle to the Rev. John M'Math - - - - 228 

The American War 231 

Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet - - - 262 

To Ruin 233 

The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth Psalm • - 234 

The First Psalm 235 

To a Louse - . 235 

The Inventory 236 

A Note to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. - . - - 238 

Willie Chalmers 239 

Lines Written on a Bank Note - - - - 240 

ToaKiss 240 

Verses written uiider violent gi'ief . - - - 241 

Verses left at a Friend's House where the Author Slept 241 

ToMr. M'Adam 242 

Lines on Meeting with Basil, Lord Daer ... 243 

Epistle to Major Logan 244 

Lament on Leaving Scotland . - - - - 246 

On a Scotch Bard 246 

Written on the Blank Leaf of a Copy of Poems - • 248 

The Farewell 248 

To a Haggis 249 

To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems ... 250 

Extempore in the Court of Session - - - - 250 

To the Guidwife of Waucliope House - - - 251 

Verses written under the portrait of Fergusson the Poet 253 

Inscription on the Headstone of Fergusson - - - 253 

Prologue spoken hy Mr. Woods, on his benefit Night 253 

Epistle to William Creech 254 

On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair - - - 256 

On Scaring some Water-Fowl in Loch-Turit - - 257 

The Humble Petition of Bruar Water - - - 258 

The Hermit 260 

Verses Written at the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth • 261 

Elegy on the Death of Lord Dundas . - - - 262 

Verses Written by the Fall of Fyers - - - 262 

On Reading the Death of John M'Leod - - - 263 

On William Smellie 264 

Address to Mr. William Tyler 264 

A Sketch 265 

To Miss Cruikshanks 265 

An Extempore Effusion, on being appointed to the Excise 266 

To Clarinda, with a Present of a Pair of Drinking Glasses 266 

To Clarinda, on his Leaving Edinburgh - - - 267 

Epistle to Hugh Parker 267 

Written in Friar's Carse Hermitage, on the Banks of Nith 268 

Extempore to Captain Riddel 270 

A Mother's Lament 270 

Elegy on the year 1788 271 

Address to the Tooth-Ache 272 

(\le. Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald . . . 273 

L-etter to James Tennant ....•, 273 



Tl CONTENTS. 

On the Duko of Queensbcrry 

Verses to Jolm Al'Murdo 

On Mr. M'Murdo, inscribed on a pane of j 

Impromptu on Willie Steward 

To Miss Jessy Lewars 

Tibbie, I ha'e seen the day 

Montgomery's Peggy 

Bonny Peggy Alison 

Here's to thy health my Bonny Lass 

Young Peggy .... 

John Barleycorn .... 

The Rigs o' Barley 

The Ploughman .... 

Song composed in August 

Yon Wild Mossy Mountains 

My Nannie, . . . . 

Green Grow the Rashes 

The Cure for all Care . 

On Cess nock Banks .... 

The Highland Lassie 

Powers Celestial .... 

From thee, EUza .... 

Menie 

The Farewell .... 

The Braes o' Ballochmyle . 

The Lass o' Ballochmyle 

The Gloojny Night is gathering fast . 

The Banks o' Doon • • 

The Birks of Aberfeldy 

I'm ower Young to Marry Yet 

M'Pherson's Farewell 

How Long and Dreary is the Night 

Here's a Health to them that's Awa . 

Strathallau's Lament . . . , 

The Banks of the Devon 

Braving Angry Winter's Storms 

My Peggy's Face .... 

Raving Winds around her blov/ing 

Highland Harry .... 

Musing on the Roaring Ocean 

Blythe was she 

The Gallant Weaver 

The Blude-red Rose at Yule may blaw 

A Rose-bud by my early walk 

l^onnie Castle Gordon 

When Januar' Wind 

The Young Highland Rover 

Bonnie Ann 

Blooming Nelly .... 

My Bonnie Mary 

Ane Fond Kiss . . : . 
The Smiling Spring 

'I'lie Lazy Mist 

Oi a' the Airts tlie Wind can Blaw 


jlai 


>s 


ul 


PIGB 
. 328 

328 

lis house 328 

. 329 

329 
. 329 

330 
. 330 

331 
. 332 

332 
. 334 

335 
. 335 

336 
. 337 

338 
. 338 

339 
. 340 

341 
. 342 

342 
. 343 

344 
. 34i 

345 

. 346 

; 346 

. 347 

347 
. 348 

348 
. 349 

349 

. 3r>o 

350 
. 351 

351 
. 352 

352 
. 353 

353 
. 354 

354 
. 355 

356 
. 357 

357 
. 353 

358 
. 359 

359 
. 360 



CONTENTS. Vll 
. PAOB 

Oh, ^ere I on Parnassus* Hill . • . • 360 

The Chevalier's Lament ...... 361 

My Heart's in the Highland 361 

John Anderson 362 

To Mary in Heaven •.••... 362 

Young Jockey 363 

The Day Returns 363 

Oh, Willie Brew'd 364 

I Gaed a Wafu' Gate Yestreen 364 

The Banks of Nith .... .365 

My heart is a-hreaking, dear Tittie . « . . 365 

There'U never be Peace 366 

Meikle thinks my Love 366 

How can I be blythe and glad ..... 367 

I do Confess thou art sae Fair . i . • . 367 

Hunting Song 368 

Wliat Can a Young Lassie 368 

The Bonnie Wee Thing 369 

Lovely Davies 370 

Oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tarn 370 

Kenmure's on and Avva 371 

Bess and her Spinning Wheel 371 

Oh Luve will venture in 372 

In Simmer, when the Hay was Mawn . . . 373 

Turn again, thou Fair EHza 374 

Willie Wastle ........ 374 

Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation .... 375 

Song of Death 376 

She's Fair and Pause 376 

Flow Gently, Sweet Afton 377 

The Lovely Lass of Inverness 377 

A red, red Rose 378 

Louis, what Reck I by Thee 378 

The Exciseman 378 

Somebody ^ 379 

I'll aye ca' in by yon Town • • • • • 379 

Wilt thou be my Dearie ? 380 

Oh. Wat ye Wha's in yon Town .... 380 

But Lately Seen 381 

Could aught of Song 381 

Oh, Steer her up 382 

It was a' for our Rightfu' King .... 382 

Oh, wha is she that Lo'es me ? 383 

Caledonia 384 

Oh, lay thy Loof in Mine, Lass 385 

Anna, thy Charms 385 

Gloomy December 385 

Oh, Mally's meek, Mally's sweet .... 386 

Cassillis' Banks 386 

My Lady's Gown, there's gairs upon't . • . 387 

The Fete Champetre 387 

The Dumfries Volunteera 388 

Oh, wert thou in the Cauit Blast . . . . 389 

Lovely Polly Stewart . . • . . 390 



Vm CONTBUTS. 

PAGB 

Yestreen I had a Pint o' Wino 390 

The Lea Rig 391 

Bonnie LesHe 391 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary ? . . . . 392 

My Wife's a winsome wee thing .... 392 

Highland Mary 393 

Auld Rob Morris 393 

Duncan Gray 394 

Poortith Cauld 395 

Gala Water 396 

Lord Gregory 396 

Mary Morrison 397 

Wandering WilUe 397 

The Soldier's Return 398 

Blythe ha'e I been on yon Hill 399 

Logan Braes 399 

Oh, Gin my Love were yon Red Rose .... 400 

Bonnie Jean 401 

Meg o' the Mill 402 

Open the door to me, Oh 402 

Young Jessie ........ 493 

Adown winding Nith I did wander .... 403 

Had I a Cave 404 

Phillis the Fair 404 

By Allan Stream I chanc'd to Rove .... 405 

Come let me take Thee to my breast .... 405 

Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad . . • . 406 

Dainty Davie 406 

Bruce's Address 407 

Behold the Hour 407 

Auld Lang Syne ..*•••. 408 

Where are the Joys ? 409 

Thou hast left me, ever 409 

Deluded Swain, the pleasure 409 

Thine am I, my Faithful Fair 410 

My Spouse, Nancy 410 

The Banks of Cree 411 

On the seas and far away ...... 412 

Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes 412 

She say she lo'es me best of a* 413 

Saw ye my Philly ? 414 

How long and dreary is the night ? • . . . 414 

Let not Woman e'er complain 415 

Sleep'st thou, or Wak'st thou 416 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves . . . 416 

It was the Charming Month (rf May . • • . 417 

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows . • . 417 

Lassie wi' the lintwhite locks 418 

Philly and Willy 418 

Contented wi' Little 420 

Can'st thou leave me thus, my Katy ? ... 420 

For a' that and a' that 520 

My Nannie's awa 421 

Craigieburn Wood 422 



CONTENTS. 

Oh Lassie, art thou Sleeping yet • 

Address to the Woodlark 

On Chloris being ill - 

Their Groves o' sweet Myrtle 

How Cruel art the Parents - 

Twas na her Bonnie Blue E'e was my ruin 

Mark yon pomp of Costly Fashion 

Oh, this is no my ain Lassie 

Now Spring has clad the Grove in Green 

Oh, Bonnie was yon Rosy Brier 

Forlorn my Love, no comfort near 

Hey for a Lass wi' a Tocher 

Last May a Braw Wooer 

Fragment 

Jessy - - . 

Fairest Maid on Devon Banks 

Handsome Nell - 

My Father was a Farmer 

Up in the morning early 

Hey, the Dusty Miller 

Robin 

The Belles of Mauchline ■ 

Her flowing Locks 

The Sons of Old Killie ■ 

The Joyful Widower 

O, Whare did you Get 

There was a Lass 

Landlady, Count the Lawin 

RattUn' Roarin' Willie 

Simmer's a pleasant time 

My Love she's but a Lassie yet 

The Captain's Lady 

First when Meggy was my care 

There's a Youth in this City 

Oh aye my Wife she dang me 

Eppie Adair - - - - 

The Battle of Sheriff-Muir - 

The Highland Widow's Lament 

Where ha'e ye been ? - 

Theniel Menzie's Bonnie Mary 

Frae the Friends and Land I Love 

Gane is the Day ... 

The Tither Morn 

Come Boat me o'er to Charlie - 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie Face 

I ha'e a Wife o' my Ain - 

Withsdale's Welcome Home 

My Collier Laddie 

As 1 was a- Wandering 

Ye Jacobites by Name 

Lady Mary Ann 

Out over the Forth - 

Jockey's ta'en the Parting Kiss 

The Carles o' Dysart 



iz 

FAGS 

422 
423 
424 
424 
425 
425 
425 
426 
427 
427 
428 
428 
429 
430 
430 
431 
431 
432 
433 
433 
434 
434 
434 
435 
435 
436 
436 
437 
437 
438 
438 
439 
439 
439 
440 
440 
441 
442 
443 
443 
444 
444 

444 
445 
445 
446 
446 
447 
448 
448 
449 
449 
449 
450 



CONTENTS. 



Lady Onlie - - - . 

Young Jamie, Pride of a' the Plain 

Jenny's a* wat, Poor Body - 

The Cardin o't 

To thee, Loved Nith - 

Sae Far Awa - 

Wae is my heart 

Amang the Trees 

The Highland Laddie 

Bannocks o' Barley 

Robin Shnre in Hairst 

Sweetest May 

The Lass of Ecclefechan 

Here's a Bottle and an Honest Friend 

On a Ploughman 

The Weary Pund o' Tow 

The Laddies by the Banks o' Nitn 

Epigrams, i^c. 

Epitaphs 



7AG1I 

- 450 
451 

- 451 
452 

- 452 
452 

- 453 
453 

- 453 
454 

- 454 
455 

- 455 
455 

- 456 
456 

• 456 
457 
460 




fife of ^okrt ^nxm. 



Sttltiatorg 'gmmh. 



Though the dialect in which many of the happiest effusions 
of RoBEET Burns are composed be peculiar to Scotland, yet 
his reputation has extended itself beyond the limits of that 
country, and his poetry has been admired as the offspring of 
original genius, by persons of taste in every part of the sister 
islands. It seems proper, therefore, to write the memoirs of 
his life, not with the view of their 'being read by Scotchmen 
only, but also by natives of England, and other countries where 
the English language is spoken or understood. 

Robert Burns, was, in realitj^, what he has been represented 
to be, a Scottish peasant. To render the incidents of his humble 
story generally intelligible, it seems, therefore, advisable to pre- 
fix some observations on the character and situation of the order 
to which he belonged — a class of men distinguished by many 
peculiarities : by this means we shall form a more correct notion 
of the advantages with which he started, and of the obstacles 
which he surmounted A few observations on the Scottish 
peasantry will not, perhaps, be found unworthy of attention in 
other respects — and the subject is, in a great measure, new. 
Scotland has produced persons of high distinction in every 
branch of philosophy and hterature : and her history while a 
separate and independent nation, has been successfully explored. 
But the present character of the people was not then formed ; 
the nation then presented features similar to those which the 
feudal system and the Catholic religion had diffused over 
Europe, modified, indeed by the peculiar nature of her territory 
and climate. The Reformation, by which such important 
changes were produced on the national character, was speedily 
followed by the accession of the Scottish monarchs to the 
English tlirone ; and the period which elapsed from that acces- 



f — 



7 LIFE OF BURNS. 

FJ'^n to the Usion, has been rendered memoraHe chiefly fo? 
those bloody convulsions in which both divisions of the island 
were involved, and which in a considerable degree, concealed 
from the eye of the historian the domestic history of the people, 
and tbe grsvdnal variations in their conditic^i and manners. 
Since the Union, Scotland, though the seat of two unsuccessful 
attempts to restore the house of Stuart to the throne, has 
enjoyed comparative tranquillity; audit is since thi^s period that 
ths present) chai*acter of her peasantry has been in a great 
measure formed, though the poUtical causes affecting it are to 
be traced to the previous acts of her separate legi.slature. 

A slight acquaintance with the peasantry of Scotland will 
serve to convince an unpyejudiced observer, that they possess a 
degree of rntelligence not generally found among the same class 
in the other co^mtries of Europe. In the very humblest coa- 
didon of the Ssottkh peasants, every one can read, and most 
persons are more or less skilled in whting and arithmetic ; and 
under the disguise of their uncouth appearance, and their 
peculiar manners and dialect, a stranger will discover that they 
possess a curiosity, and have obtained a degree of informaticm, 
corresponding to these acquirements. 

These advantages they owe to the legal provision made by 
the Parliament of Scotland in 1646, for the establishment of a 
school in every parish throughout ths kingdom, for the expresi 
purpose of educating the poor — a law which may challenge 
comparison with any act of legislation to be found in the records 
of history, whether we consider the wisdom of the ends in view, 
the simplicity of the means emploj'ed, or the provisions made 
to render these means effectual to their purpose. This excellent 
statute was repealed on the accession of Charles LI. 1660, 
together with all the other laws passed during the Comm(Hi- 
wealth, not as being sanctioned by the royal assent. It slept 
during the reigns of Charles and James II., but was re-enacted, 
precisely in the same terms, by the Scottish Pa?liament, in 
1696, after the Revolution ; and this is the last provision on the 
subject. Its effects on the national character may be considered 
to have commenced about the period of the Union, and doubtless 
it co-operated with the peace and security arising from that 
happy event, in producing the extraordinary change in favour of 
industry and good naorals, which the character of the common 
people of Scotland has since undergone. 

The church establishment of Scotland happily coincides with 
the institution just mentioned, which may be called its school 
establishment. The clergyman, being everywhere resident in 
his particular parish, becomes the natural patron and super- 
intendant of the parish school, and is enabled in various ways 
to promote the comfort of the teacher, and the proftciency of 
the scholars. The teacher himself is often a candidate for holy 
orders, who during the long course of study and probation 
required in the Scottish church, renders the time which cim be 
spared from his professional studies useful to others as well as to 
himself, by assuming the respectable character of a schoolmaster. 
It is common for the established scIkoIs, even in the country pa- 



E^^E OP BURNS. f 

tisrlies of Scotland, to enjoy the mean? of claseioal mstruction; 
and many of the farmers, end some even of the cottagers, «ubmit 
to much privation, thatthe^ may obtain, Xor aae of their son« at 
least, the precarious advantage of a learned education. The 
difficulty to be surmounted arises, indeed, not from the expense 
©f instructing their children, but from the charge of supporting 
them. In the country parish schoels, the English language, 
writing, and accounts, are generally taught at the rate of six 
shillings, and Latin at the rate of ten ar twelve shillings, per 
«.nnum. In the towns the prices are somewhat higher. 

It woEild be improper in this place ts enquire minutely into 
the degree of instruction received at these seminaries, or t^ 
attempt any precise estimate of its effects, either on the indi- 
viduals who are the subjects of this instruction, or on the 
community to which they belong. That it is on the whole 
faveurable to industry and morals, though doubtlcvss with some 
individual exceptions, seems to be proved by the most striking 
and decisive experience ; and it is equally clear, that it is the 
cause of that spirit of eftiigratio^ and of adventurs so pre- 
valent among the Scotch. Knowledge lias, by Lord Verulam, 
been denominated power ; by others it has, with less propriety, 
been denominated virtue or happiness ; we may with contidence 
-consider it as motion. A human being, in paroportion as he is 
informed, has his wishes enlarged, as weU as the means of 
gratifying those wishes. He may be considered as taking 
within the sphere of his vision a large portion of the globe on 
which we tread, and discovering advantage at a greater distance 
on its surface. His desires or ambition, once excited, are 
stimulated by his imagination; and distant and uncertain 
objects giving freer scope to the epo-ation cf this facuby, often 
acquire, m the mind of the youthful adventur-er, an attraction 
from their very distance and uncertainty. If, therefore, a 
greater degree of instruction be given to the peasantry of a 
country comparatively poor, in the neighbourhood of other 
countries rich in natiural and acquired advantages ; and if the 
barriers be removed that kept them separate, emigration from 
the former to the latter will take place to a certain extent, by- 
laws nearly -&s uniform as those by which heat diffiises itself 
among the surrounding bcdies, or water finds its level when 
Iftft to its natural course. By the articles of the Union, the 
barrier was broken down which divided the two British nations, 
&nd knowledge and poverty poured the adventurous natives o^ 
the north over the fertile plains of England ; and more especially 
over the colonies which she had settled in the east and in the 
west. The stream of population osntinues to flow from tko 
north to the south, for the causes that originally impelled it 
continue to eperafje ; and the richer country is constantly invigo- 
rated bj' the accession of an informed and hardy race of men, 
educated in poverty, and prepared for hardship and danger; 
patient of labour and prodigal of life. 

The preachers of the Reformation in Scotland were disciples 
of Calvin, and brought with them the temper as well as the 
tenets ©f that celehratud hei'osiarch. The Presbyterian form <rf 



4 LIFE OP BURNS. 

worship and of church goTernraent was endeared to the people 
from its being established by themselves. It was endeared to 
them, also, by the struggle it had to maintain with the CathoHc 
and Protestant episcopal churches ; over both of which, after a 
hundred years of fierce, and sometimes bloody contention, it 
finally triumphed, receiving the countenance of government and 
the sanction of law. During this long period of contention and 
of suffering the temper of the people became more and more 
obstinate and bigoted ; and the nation received that deep ting© 
of fanaticism which coloured their public transactions, as well 
as their private ^*irt^es, and of which evident traces may be 
found in our own times. When the public schools were esta- 
blished, the instruction communicated in them partook of the 
religious cliaracter of the people. The Catechism of the West- 
minster Divines was the universal school-book, and was put into 
the hands of the young peasant as soon as he had acquired a 
knowledge of the alphabet ; and his first exercise in the art of 
reading introduced him to the most mysterious doctrines of 
the Christian faith. This practice is continued in our own times. 
After the Assembly's Catechism, the Proverbs of Solomon, and 
the New and Old Testament follow in regular succession ; and 
the scholar departs, gifted with the knowledge of the sacred 
writings, and receiving their doctrines according to the interpre- 
tation of the Westminster Confession of Faith. Thus, with the 
instruction of infancy in the schools of Scotland, are blended the 
dogmas of the national church ; and hence the first and most 
constant exercise of ingenuity among the peasantrj^ of Scotland, 
is displayed in religious disputation. With a strong attachment 
to the national creed is conjoined a bigoted preference for certair 
forms of w^orship, the source of which would be often altogether 
obscure, if we did not recollect that the ceremonies of the Scot- 
tish Church were framed in direct opposition, in every point, 
to 4;hose of the Church of Rome. 

The eccentricities of conduct, and singularities of opinion and 
manners, which characterised the English sectaries in the last 
century, afforded a subject for the comic muse of Butler, whose 
pictures lose their interest since their archetypes are lost. Some 
of the pecuHarities common among the more rigid disciples ol 
Calvnnism in Scotland, in the pi*esent times, have given scope 
to the ridicule of Burns, whose humour is equal to Butler's, and 
whose drawings from hving manners are singularly expressive 
and. exact. Unfortunatel}', the correctness of his taste did not 
always con-espond with the strength of his genius. 

The information and the religious education of the peasantry 
of Scotland promote sedateness of conduct and habits of thought 
and reflection. These good qualities are not counteracted by 
the establishment of poor laws. Happily in Scotland, the samo 
legislature which established a system of instruction for the 
poor, resisted the introduction of a legal provision for the sup- 
port of poverty ; hence it will not appear surprising if the Scot- 
tish peasantry have a more than usual share of prudence and 
reflection, if they approach nearer than persons of their 
order usually do to the definition of a man — that of " a being 



XIFE OF BUHNS. O 

that lo^s before and after." These observatisns mxist indeed 
be taken with many exceptions ; the faveurable operation of the 
causes just mentioned is counteracted by others of an opposite 
tendency : and the subject, if fully examined, would lead to 
rliscussions of great extent. 

When the Reformation was established in Scotland, instru- 
mental music was banished fi-em the churches, as savouring too 
much of " profane minstrelsy." Instead of being regulated by 
an instrument, the voices of the congregation are led and directed 
by a person under tlie name of a preceptor, and the people are 
all expected to join in the tune which he chooses for the psalm 
which is to be sung. Church music is, therefore, a part of the 
education of the peasantry of Scotland, hi wlii(;h they are usually 
instructed in the long winter nights by tlie parish schoolmaster, 
who is generally the precentor, or by itinerant teachers, more 
celefea-ated for their powers of voice. This branch of education 
had, in the la&t reign, fallen into some neglect, but was revived 
about thirty or forty yeai's ago, when the music itself was 
reformed and improved. The Scottish system of psalmody, 
howevef, is radicallj^ bad. Destitute of taste or harmony^, it 
forms a striking contrast with the delieacy and pathos of the 
profane airs. Our poet, it will be found, was taught church 
music, in which, however, he attained Uttle proficiency. 

That dancing should also be very generally a part of the 
education of the Scottish peasantry will surprise those who 
have only seen this description of men ; and still more those 
who reflect on the rigid spirit of Calvinism, with which the nation 
is so deeply affected, and to whicli this recreation is so strongly 
abhorrent. The winter is also the season wlien they acquire 
dancing, and, indeed, almost all tlteir other instruction. They 
are taught to dance by persons generally of their own number, 
many of whom work at daily labour diuing tlie summer months. 
Tlj;e school is usually a barn, and the arena for the performers 
is ger^rally a cla\' floor. Tlie dome is lighted by candles stuck 
in one end of a cloven stick, tlie other end. of which is stuck into 
the wall. Keels, strathspe} s, <:x)ntra-dances, and hornpipes, are 
here practised. Tlie jig, so much in favour among the English 
peasantrj^ lias no place among them. The attachment of the 
people of Scotland of every rank, and particularly of the pea- 
santry, to this amusement, is very great. After the labours of 
the day aj-e over, young men and women walk many miles, in 
the cold and dreary nights of winter, to these country dancing- 
schools, and the instant the violin sounds a Scottish air, fatigue 
seems to vanisli, the toil-bent rustic becomes erect, his features 
l)righten with sympathy, every nerve seems to thrill with sensa- 
tion, and every artery to vibrate with life, lliese rustic per- 
formers, indeed, are less to be admired for grace than for agiHty 
and animation, and for their accurate observance of time. Their 
modes of dancing, as well as their tunes, are common to every 
rank in Scotland, and are now generally known. In our own 
day they have penetriJted into England, and have established 
themselves even in the circle of royalty. In another generation 
they win be naturahsed in e\ery part of tbe island, 

B3 



6 LIFE OF BURNS. 

The prevalance of this taste, or rather passion, for danciug 
ftmon» a people so deeply tinctured with the spirit and doctrine 
of Calvin, IS one ot those contradictions which the philosophic 
observer so often iinds in national character and manners. It is 
probably to be ascribed to the Scottish music which, throughout 
all its varieties, is so full of sensibihty, and wnich, in its Hvelier 
strains, awakes those vivid emotions that find in dancing their 
natural solace and relief. 

This triumph of the music of Scotland over the spirit of the 
established rehgion, has not, however, been obtamed without 
long-continued and obstinate struggles. The numerous sectaries 
who dissent from the Establishment on account of the relaxation 
which they perceive, or think they perceive, in the Church, from 
her original doctrines and disciphne, universally condemn the 
practice of dancing, and the schools where it is taught : and the 
more elderly and serious part of the people, of every persuasion . 
tolerate rather than approve these meetings of the young of both 
sexes, where dancing is practised to their spirit-stirring music, 
w^here care is dispelled, toil forgotten, and pinidence itself is 
sometimes lulled to sleep. 

The Reformation, which proved fatal to the rise of the other 
fine arts in Scotland, probably impeded, but could not obstruct, 
the progress of its music — a circumstance that will convince the 
impartial inquirer, that tliis music not only existed previously 
to that era, but had taken a firm hold of the nation, thus 
affording a proof of its antiquity stronger than any produced by 
the researches of our antiquaries. 

The impression which the Scottish music has made on the 
Deople, is deepened by its union with the national songs, of 
which various collections of unequal merit are before the public. 
These songs, like those of other nations, are many of them 
humorous, but they chiefly treat of love, w^ar, and drinking. 
Love is the subject of the greater proportion. Without display- 
ing the higher powers of the imagination, they exhibit a perfect 
knowledge of the human heart, and breathe a spirit of affection, 
and sometimes of dehcate and romantic tenderness, not to be 
surpassed in modem poetry, and which the more pohshed 
strains of antiquity have seldom possessed. 

The origin of this amatory character in the rustic muse of 
Scotland, or of the greater number of these love-songs them- 
selves, it would be difficult ^7) trace ; they have accumulated in 
the silent lapse of time, and it is now perhaps impossible to give 
an arrangement of them in the order of their date, valuable as 
such a record of taste and manners would be. Their present 
influence on the character of the nation is, however, great and 
striking. To them we must attribute, in a great meagre, the 
romantic passion which so often characterises the attachments 
of the humblest of the people of Scotland, to a degree that, if 
\^ c mistake not, is seldom found in the same rank of societj- in 
other countries. The pictures of love and happiness exhibited 
in their rural songs, are early impressed on the mind of the 
peasant, and are rendered more attractive from the music with 
which they are united. Thoy associate tliemselves with his owd 



SOCIAL INTERCOURSE OF THE SEXES. 7 

youthful emotions ; they elevate the object as well as the na- 
ture of his attachment ; and grive to the impressions of sense 1 he 
beautiful colours of imagination. Hence, in tlie course of his 
passion, a Scottish peasant often exerts a spirit of adventure, of 
which a Spanish cavaher need not be ashamed. After the 
labours of the day are over, he sets out for the habitation of his 
mistress, perhaps at many miles' distance, regardless of the 
length or the dreariness of the way. He approaches her in 
secresy, under the disguise of night. A signal at the door or 
window, perhaps agreed on, and understood by none but her, 
gives infoiTnation of his arrival ; and sometimes it is repeated 
again and again, before the capricious fair one will obey the 
summons. But if she favours his addresses, she escapes unob- 
served, and receives the vows of her lover under the gloom of 
twilight or the deeper shade of night. Interviews of this kind 
are the subjects of many of the Scottish songs, some of the most 
beautiful of which Burns has imitated and improved. In the 
art which they celebrate he was perfectly skilled ; he knew and 
had practised all its mysteries. Intercourse of this sort is 
indeed universal even in the humblest condition of man in every 
region of the earth. But it is not unnatural to suppose that it 
may exist in a greater degree, and in a more romantic form, 
among the peasantry of a country, who are supposed to be more 
than commonly instructed — who find in their rural songs 
expressions for their youtliful emotions — and in whom the 
embers of passion are continually fanned by the breathings of a 
music full of tenderness and sensibihty. The direct influence of 
physical causes on the attachment between the sexes is compa- 
ratively small, but it is modified bj' moral causes beyond any 
other affection of the mind. Of these, music and poetry are the 
chief. Among the snows of Lapland, and under the burning 
sun of Angola, the savage is seen hastening to his mistress, and 
ever3^where he beguiles the weariness of his Journey with poetry 
and song. 

In appreciating the happiness and virtue of a community, 
there is, perhaps, no single criterion on which so much depend- 
ence may be placed as the state of the intercourse between the 
sexes. Where this displays ardour of attachment, accompanied 
by purity of conduct, the character and influence of women rise in 
society, our imperfect nature mounts in the scale of moral excel- 
lence ; and, from the source of this single affection, a stream of feli- 
city descends, which branches into a thousand rivulets that enrich 
and adorn the field of life. Where the attachment between the 
sexes sinks into an appetite, the heritage of our species is com- 
parativel}' poor, and man approaches the condition of the brutes 
that perish! " If we could with safety indulge the pleasing 
supposition, that Fingal lived andOssian sung," Scotland, judg- 
ing fi'om this criterion, miglic be considered as ranking high in 
happiness and virtue in very remote ages. To appreciate her 
situation by the same criterion in our own times, w^ould be a 
delicate and a difficult undertaking. After considering the pro- 
bable influence of her popular songs and her national music, and 
examining how far the effects to be expected from these are sup- 



8 LIFE OF BURNS. 

ported by facts, the inquirer would also have to eximrne ^he 
influence of other causes, and particularly of ner civil and eccle- 
siastical institutions, by which the character and even the man- 
ners of a people, though silently and slowly, are often powerfully 
controlled. In the point of view in which we are considering 
the subject, the ecclesiastical establishments of Scotland may be 
supposed pecuharly favourable to purity of conduct, The dis- 
soluteness of manners among the Catholic clergy, which pre- 
ceded, and in some measure produced, the Reformation, led to 
an extraordinary strictness on the part of the reformers, and 
especially in that particular, in which the licentiousness of the 
clergy had been carried to its greatest height — the intercourse 
between the sexes. On this point, as on all others connected 
with austerity of manners, the disciples of Calvin assumed a 
greater severity than those of the Protestant Episcopal church. 
The punishment of illicit connection between the sexes was, 
throughout all Europe, a province which the clergy assumed to 
themselves ; and the church of Scotland, which at the Reforma- 
tion renounced so many powers and privileges, at that period 
took this crime under her more especial jurisdiction. Where 
pregnancy takes place without marriage, the condition of the 
female causes the discovery ; and it is on her, therefore, in the 
first instance, that the clergy and elders exercise their zeal. 
After examination before the kirk-session, touching the circum- 
stances of her guilt, she must endure a public penance and sus- 
tain a pubhc rebuke from the pulpit, for three Sabbaths succes- 
sively, in the face of the congregation to which she belongs, and 
thus have her weakness exposed and her shame blazoned. The 
sentence is the same with respect to the male, but how much 
lighter the punishment ! It is w^ell known that this dreadful 
law, worthj^ of the iron minds of Calvin and Knox, has often led to 
consequences, at the very mention of which human nature recoils. 
While the punishment of incontinence prescribed by the 
institutions of Scotland is severe, the culprits have an obvious 
method of avoiding it, afforded them by the law^ respecting mar- 
riage, the vahdity of which requires neither the ceremonies, but 
simply the acknowledgement of each other as husband and wife, 
made by the parties before witnesses, or in any other w^ay 
that gives legal evidence of such an acknowledgment having 
taken place. And as the parties themselves fix the date of their 
marriage, an opportunity is thus given to avoid the punishment 
and repair the consequences of illicit gratification. Such a 
degree of hixity respecting so serious a contract might produce 
much confusion in the descent of property without a stiU farther 
indulgence ; but the law of Scoland legitimating all children 
born before wedlock, on the subsequent marriage of their parents, 
renders the actual date of the marriage itself of little conse- 
quence. Marriages contracted in Scotland without the ceremo- 
nies of the church are considered as irregular, and the parties 
usually submit to a rebuke for their conduct, in the face of their 
respective congregations, wdiich is not, however, necessary to 
render the man'iage valid. Burns, whose marriage, it wUl 
appear, was irregular, does not seem to have undergone thjg 
part of the discipline of tlie church. 



SOCIAL INTERCOURSE OF THE SliXES. U 

Thus, though the institutions of Scotland are in many par- 
ticulars favourable to conduct among the peasantry founded 
upon foresight and reflection, on the subjec^ of marnage tha 
reverse of this is true. Irregular man-iages, it may be natu- 
rally supposed, are often improvident ones, in whatever rank of 
society they occur. The childi-en of such marriages, poorly 
endowed by their parents, find a certain degree of instruction 
of easy acquisition, but the comforts of hfe, and the gratifica- 
tions of ambition, they find of more difficult attainment in their 
native soil j and thus the marriage laws of Scotland conspire, 
with other circumstances, to produce that habit of emigration, 
and spirit of adventure, for which the people are so remarkable. 

The manners and appearance of the Scottish peasantry do not 
bespeak to a stranger the degree of their cultivation. In their 
own country, their industry is inferior to that of the same 
description of men in the southern division of the island. In- 
dustry and the useful arts reached Scotland later than England ; 
and though their advance has been rapid there, the efiects pro- 
duced are as yet inferior both in reahty and in appearance. The 
Scottish farmers have in general neither the opulence nor the 
comforts of those of England, neither rest the same capital in 
the soil, nor receive from it the same return. Their clothing, 
their food, and their habitations, are almost everywhere infe- 
rior. Their appearance in these respects corresponds with the 
appearance of their country ; and under the operation of patient 
industry, both are improving. Industry and the useful arts 
came later into Scotland than into England, because the security 
of property came later. With causes of internal agitation and 
warfare, similar to those which occurred to the more southern 
nation, the people of Scotland were exposed to more imminent 
hazards and to more extensive and destructive spohation, from 
external war. Occupied in the maintenance of their independ- 
ence against their more powerful neighbours, to this purpose 
were necessarily sacrificed the arts of peace, and, at certain 
periods, the flower of their population. And when the union 
of the crowns produced a security from national wars with Eng- 
land, for the century succeeding, the civil wars common to both 
divisions of the island, and their dependence, perhaps the neces- 
sary dependence, of the Scottish councils on those of the more 
powerful kingdom, counteracted this disadvantage. Even the 
union of the British nations was not, from obvious causes, 
immediately followed by all the benefits which it was ultimately 
destined to produce. At length, however, these benefits are 
distinctly felt and generally acknowledged. Property is secure j 
manufactm-es and commerce increasing; and agriculture is 
rapidly increasing in Scotland. As yet, indeed, the farmers 
are not, in general, enabled to make improvements out of their 
own capitals, as in England ; but the landholders, who have 
seen and felt the advantages resulting from them, contribute 
towards them with a liberal hand. Hence property, as well as 
population, is accumulating rapidly on the Scottish soil ; and 
the nation, enjoying a great part of the blessings of Englishmen, 
and retaining several of their own happy institutions, might be 

\ 



r 



10 LIFE OF BURNS. 

considered, if confidence could be placed in human foresight, to 
be as yet only in an early stage of their pros^ress. Yet there are 
obstructions in their way. To the cultivation of the soil are 
opposed the extent and the strictness of the entails ; to the 
improvement of the people, the rapidly-increasing use of spiritu- 
ous liquors ; a detcstable*practice, which includes in its conse- 
quences almost every evil, physical and moral. The peculiarly 
social disposition of the Scottish peasantry exposes them to this 
practice. This disposition, which is fostered by their national 
songs and music, is, perhaps, characteristic of the nation at 
large. Though the source of many pleasures, it counteracts, by 
its consequences, the eflects of their patience, industry, and 
frugality, both at home and abroad, of which those especially 
who have witnessed the progress of Scotsmen in other countries 
must have known many striking instances. 

Since the Union, the manners and langiiage of the people of 
Scotland have no longer a standard among themselves, but are 
tried by the standard of the nation to which they are united. 
Though their habits are fai from being flexible, yet it is evident 
that their manners and dialect are undergoing a rapid change. 
Even the farmers of the present day appear to have less of the 
peculiarities of their country in their speech than the men of 
letters of the last generation. Burns, who never left the island 
nor penetrated farther into England than Carlisle on the one 
hand, or Newcastle on the other, had less of the Scottish 
dialect than Hiune, who lived for many years in the best society 
of England and France — or perhaps than Robertson, who 
wrote the English language in a style of such purity ; and if 
he had been in other respects fitted to take a lead in the British 
House of Commons, his pronunciation would neither have 
fettered his eloquence, nor deprived it of its due effect. 

A striking particular in the character of the Scottish peasantry 
is one which it is hoped will not be lost — the strength of their 
domestic attachments. The privations to which many parents 
submit for the good of their children, and particularlj^ to obtain 
for them instruction, which they consider as the chief good, has 
already been noticed. If their children live and prosper, they 
have their certain reward, not merely as witnessing, but as 
sharing of their prosperity. Even in the humblest ranks of the 
peasantry, the earnings of the children may generally be con- 
sidered as at the disposal of their parents : perhaps in no country 
is so large a portion of the wages of labour appHed to the support 
and comfort of those whose days of labour are past. A similar 
strength of attachment extends through all the domestic 
relations. Our poet partook largely of this amiable characteristic 
of his humble compeers : he was also strongly tinctured with 
another striking feature which belongs to them — a partiality 
for his native country, of which many proofs may be found in 
his writings. This, it must be confessed, is a very strong and 
general sentiment among the natives of Scotland, differing, 
however, in its character, according to the character of the 
different minds in which it is found — in some appearing a selfish 
prejudice, in others a generous affection. 



PATRIOTISM OV THE SCOTCH ll 

An attachment to the land of their birth is, indeed, common 
to all men. It is found among the inhabitants of every region 
of the earth, from the arctic to the ant-arctic circle, in all the vast 
Variety of climate, of surface, and of civilization. To analyse tins 
general sentiment, to trace it through the mazes of association 
up to the primary affection in which it has its source, would 
neither be a difficult nor an unpleasing labour. On the first 
consideration of the subject, we should perhaps expect to find 
this attachment strong in proportion to the physical advantages 
of the soil ; but inquiry, far from confirming this supposition, 
seems rather to lead to an opposite conclusion. In those fertile 
regions where beneficent nature yields almost spontaneously 
whatever is necessary to human wants, patriotism, as well aa 
every other generous sentiment, seems weak and languid. In 
countries less richly endowed, where the comforts, and even 
necessaries, of hfe must be purchased by patient toil, the affec- 
tions of the mind, as well as the faculties of the understanding, 
improve under exertion, and patriotism flomishes amidst its 
kindred virtues. Where it is necessary to combine for mutual 
defence, as well as for the supply of common wants, mutual 
good- will springs from mutual difficulties and labours, the social 
affections unfold themselves and extend from the men with 
whom we live to the soil on which we tread. It will perhaps 
be found, indeed, that our affections cannot be originally called 
forth, but by objects capable, or supposed capable, of feeling our 
sentiments, and of returning them ; but when once excited, they 
are strengthened by exercise ; they are expanded by the powers 
of imagination, and seize more especially on those inanimate 
parts of creation, which form the theatre on which we have 
first felt the alternationa of joy and sorrow, and first tasted the 
sweets of sympathy and regard. If this reasoning be just, the 
love of our coimtry, although modified, and even extinguished 
in individuals by the chances and changes of life, may be pre- 
sumed, in our general reasonings, to be strong among a people, 
in proportion to their social, and more especially to their domestic 
affections. Under free governments it is found more active than 
under despotic ones, becatise as the individual becomes of more 
consequence in the community, the community becomes of 
more consequence to him. In small states it is generally more 
active than in large ones, for the same reason, and also because 
the independence of a small community being maintained with 
difficulty, and frequently endangered, sentiments of patriotism 
are more frequently excited. In mountainous countries it is 
generally found more active than in plains, because there the 
necessities of life often require a closer union of the inhabitants ; 
and more especially, because in such countries, though less 
populous than plains, the inhabitants, instead of being scattered 
equally over the whole, are usually divided into small commu- 
nities on the sides of their separate valleys, and on the banks of 
their respective streams — situations well calculated to call forth 
and to concentrate the social affections, amidst scenery that 
acts most powerfully on the sight, and makes a lasting impression 
on the memory. It may also be remarked, -that mountainous 



12 LIFE OF BURNS, 

countries are often peculiarly calculated to nourish sentimenta 
of national pride and independence, from the influence of his- 
tory on the affections of the mind. In such countries, from 
their natural strength, inferior nations have maintained their 
independence against their move powerful neighhours, and valoiir 
iu all ages, has made its most successftil efforts against oppression. 
Such countries present the field of battle where the tide of 
invasion was rolled back, and whereon the ashes rest of those 
who have died in defence of their nation ! 

The operation of the various causes we have mentioned is doubt- 
less more general and more permanent where the scenery of a 
country, the peculiar manners of its inhabitants, and the martial 
achievements of their ancestors, are embodied in national songs, 
and united to national music. By this combination, the ties 
that attach men to the land of their birth are multiphed and 
etrengthened, and the images of infancy, strongly associating 
with the generous affections, resist the influence of time and of 
new impressions ; they often survive in countries far distant, 
and amidst far different scenes, to the latest period of life, to 
soothe the heart with the pleasures of memory w^hen those of 
hope die away. 

If this reasoning be just, it wiU explain to us why among the 
natives of Scotland, even of cultivated minds, we so generally 
find a partial attachment to the land of their birth, and why 
this is so strongly discoverable in the writings of Burns, 
who joined to the higher powers of the understanding the most 
ardent affections. Let not men of reflection think it a super- 
fluous labour to trace the rise and progress of a character Hke 
his. Bom in the condition of a peasant, he rose by the force of 
his mind into distinction and influence, and in his works has 
exhibited what are so rarely found, the charms of original 
genius. With a deep insight into the human heart, his poetry 
exhibits high powers of imagination — it displays and, as it 
were, embalms, the pecuhar manners of his country ; and it 
may be considered as a monument, not to his own name only, 
but to the expiring genius of an ancient and once independent 
nation. In relating the incidents of his life, candour will prevent 
us fi'om dwelling invidiously on those failings which justice 
forbids us to conceal ; we w411 tread lightly over his yet warm 
ashes, and respect the laurek that shelter his untimely gave. 



EoBEET BuENS was, as is well known, the son of a farmer 
in Ayrshure, and afterwards himself a farmer there ; but having 
been unsuccessful, he was about to emigrate to Jamaica. He 
had previously, however, attracted some notice by his poetical 
talents in the vicinity where he lived; and having published a 
small volume of his poems at Kilmarnock, this drew upon him 
more general attention. In consequence of the encouragement 
he received, he repaired to Edinbm-gh, and there published, by 
subscription, an improved and enlarged edition of his pocms, 
which met with extraordinary success. By the profits arising 



burns' sketch of his own life 13 

from tfee sale of this edition, he was enabled to «nter on a farm 
in Dumfries-shire 4 and having married a person to whom he 
had been long attached, he retired to devote the remainder of 
his life to agriculture. He was again however unsuccessful ; and 
abandoning his farm, he remo\ ed into the town of Dimitnes, 
where he filled an inferior office in the Excise, and where he 
terminated his life in July, 1796, in his thirty-eighth year. 

The strength and origin^Jity of his genius procured him the 
notice of many persons distinguished in the republic of letters, 
and among others that of Dr. MoorCj well known for his Views 
of Societ;y and Manners on the ContiQon<fc of Europe, for his 
Zeluco, and various other works. To this gentleman our poet 
addressed a letter, after his first visit to Edinburgh, giving a his- 
tory of his life, up to the period of his writing. In aoomposition 
Bever intended to see the light, elegance, or perfect correctness 
of composition, will not be expected. These, however, wiU be 
compensated by the opportunity of s^ng our poet, as he gives 
the incidents of his life, unfold the pecuHarities of his character 
with all the careless vigour and open sincerity of his mind, 

" JifancJilme, 2nd August, 1787. 

" SiE. — For some months past I have been rambling over the 
country, but I am now confined with some lingering complaints, 
originating, as I take it, in the stom.ach. To divert my spirits 
a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to 
give you a history of myself. My name h-as made some little 
noise in this country — ^you have done me the honour to interest 
yourself warmly in my behalf; and I think a faithful account 
of what character of a man I am, and how I came by that 
character, may perhaps amuse you in an idle moment. I will 
give you an honest narrative, though I know it will be often at 
mj own expense; for I assure you, sir, I have, like Solomon, 
whose character, excepting in the trifling affair oi wisdom, I some- 
times think I resemble — I have, I say, hke him, turned my eyes to 
behold madness and folly, and Hke him, too frequently shaken 
hands with their intoxicating friendship. * * * # * 
After you have perused these pages, should you think them 
trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that the 
poor author wrote them under some twitching qualms of con- 
science, arising from suspicion that he was doing what he ought 
not to do — ft predicament he has more than once been in 
before." 

"I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that 
character which the pye-coated guardians of escutcheons call a 
gentleman. When at Edinburgh last winter, T got acquainted 
in the Hersdd's Office ; and, looking through that granary of 
honours, I there found almost every name in the kingdom 1 
but for me, 

* My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood.* 
Gules, Pmpure, Argent, <&c., quite disowned me." 

My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmer, 
%ndwas thrown by early misfortunes on the world at large, 



14 LIFE OF BURKS. 

where, after many years* wan^eringt and sojcurnings^he picked 
up a pretty lar^e quantity of observation and experience, to 
which T am indebted for most of mylittle pretensions to wisdom, 
I ha-ve met with few who understood men, their maniier^j 
and their ^t'aj/Sy eqiial to him ;• but stubborn, ungainly integrity, 
and headlong ungovernable irascibility, are disqualityiiig 
circumstances, consequently I was bom a verj' poor man's- son. 
For the first six or seven ycai-s of my life, my father was a 
gardener to a worthy gentleman ef small estate in the neigk- 
botQ'hood of AjT. Had hs continued in that station I must 
have marched off to be one of the little underlings about a 
farm-heiise ; but it ^^'as his dearest ^vish and prayer to liive it 
in his power to keep his children under his own eye till they 
G0'»&ld discern between good and evil ; 90, with the assistance g€ 
his generous master, my father ventured on a small farm on his 
estate. At those years I was by no means a favourite with any 
body. I was a good, deal noted for a retentive memory, a 
stubborn sturdy something in ray disposition,, and an enthu- 
siastic idiotic piety. I say idiotic piety, because I was then 
but a child. Though' \% cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, 
I made an excellent English sdiolai", and by the time I was ten 
or eleven yea?s of age, I wa& a critic in substantives, verbs, and 
particles. In my infant and boyish day&^ too, I owed much to 
an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her 
ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She hady I suppose,, the 
largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning 
devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, 
kelpies, elf-candles^ dead-lights, wraiths^ apparitions, cantraips, 
giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This 
cultivated the latent seed^ of poetry, but liad so strong an effect 
oa my imagiaatic^i, that to this hwi?, in my nocturaal rambles, 
I sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places; and 
though nobody can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, 
yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to shake off these idle 
terrors. The earliest compositica that I recollect taking plea- 
sure in was The Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's> 
beginning, " How ai'e thy servants blest, oh Lord ! " I 
particularly remember one iklf-staaza, which was music to my 
boyish ear : — 

'For though on drea(^ul whirls we hraig 
High on the broken wave.' 

I met with these pieces in Mason's English Collection, one of 
my school-books. The two first books 1 ever read in private, 
and which gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever 
read since, were the Life of Hannibal, smd The History of Sir 
William Wallace, Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, 
that I used to strut iu raptures up and down alter the recruiting 
drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; 
while the story of Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into my 
veins, which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shut 
iu eternal rest." 

" Polemical divinity about tliis time was putting the country 



BURNS* SKESTCH OP HIS OWN LIFE. 15 

lialf mad ; and I, ambitieus of shining in conversaftion-parfcies 
on Sundays, between sermons, at funerals, ^c, used a few years 
afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with go much heat and indis- 
eretion, thart I raised a hue and cry of heresy against me, 
which has not ceased to this hour.** 

My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to me. My 
social disposition, when not checked by some modifications of 
spirited pride, w^as, ]^e our catechism delinition of infinitude, 
without bounds or limits. I formed several connections with 
ether yomikers who possessed superioradvantages, XhQ youngling 
actors w^ho w^ere busy in the rehearsal of parts in which they 
were s:hortly.to appear on the stage of life, where, alas ! I was 
destined to drudge behind the scenes. It is not commonly at 
this gi-een age that our young gentry have a just sense of the 
immense distance between them and their ragged playfellows. 
It takes a few dashes in the world to give the young great mao 
that proper, decent, unnoticing disregard for the poor insignificant 
. stupid devils, the mechanics and .peasantry .around, him, who 
were -perhaps born in the same village. My young superiors 
never insulted tite clouterly appearance of my plough-boy 
carcase, tlie two extremes of which were often exposed to all 
the inclemencies of all seasons. They would give me stray 
volumes of books: among them,. even then, I could pick up 
some 'Observations ; and one, whose heart I am sure not even the 
Munny Begtim scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. 
Parting with these, my young friends and benefactors, as they 
ecGcasionally went off to the East or West Indies, was often .to 
me a sore affliction ; but I was soon called to more serious evils. 
My father's generous master died ; the farm proved a ruinous bar- 
gain ; and to clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands of a 
fiactor, who sat for the picture I have drawn of one in my tale of 
Twa I)ogs. My father wa& advanced in life when he married ; 
I was the eldest of seven children; and he, worn out by early 
hardships, was mifit for labour. My father's spirit was soon 
irritated, but not easily broken. There was a freedom in his 
lease in two years more ; and. .to weather these two j^ears, \vq 
retrenched our expenses. We lived very poorly. I was a 
dextrous ploughman, for my age ; and the next eldest to me was 
a brother (Gilbert) w^ho could diive the plough veiy well, and help 
me to thrash the com. A novel writer might perhaps have 
^ewed these scenes with some satisfaction, but so did not I ; my 
indignation yet boils at the recollection of the scoundrel factor's 
insolent threatening letters, which used to set us all in tears." 

" This kind of Hfe — the cheerless gloom of hermit, wit^ the 
unceasing toil of a galle3^-slave, brought me to my sixteenth 
year ; ,a little before which peri^xi I first committed the sin -of 
rhyme. You know<our country custom of coupling a man and 
woman -together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my 
fifteenth autumn, my partner was a bewitching creature a year 
younger than myself. My scarcity of EngUsh denies me the 
power of doing her justice in that liinguage ; but you know the 
Scottish idiom — she was a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, 
the altogether, miwittingly to herself, initiated me in -that deli- 



16 LIFE OF BURNS. 

cious passion which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horee 
prudence, and book-worm philosophy^ I hold to be the first or 
human joys, our dearest blessing here below How she caught 
the contagion I cannot tell ; you medical people talk so much 
of infection from breathing the same air, the touch, &c., but I 
Eiever expressly said I loved her. Indeed I did not know myself 
why I liked so much to loiter behind with her when returning 
»n the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her voice 
made my heart strings thrill like an iEblian harp ; and paar- 
ticularly, why my pulse beat such a furious ratan when I looked 
and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle 
stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring quahties, 
she sang sweetly; and it was her favourite reel to which I 
attempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not 
so presumptuous at to imagine that I cauld make verses like 
printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and Latin ; but 
my girl sang a song, which was said to be composed by a smaU 
country laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with whom he 
was in love, and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well*^ 
as he J for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, 
his father living in the moor-lands, he had no more scholar-craft 
than myself." 

" Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have 
been my only, and till vrithih the last twelve months, have been 
my highest enjoyment. My father struggled on till he reached 
the freedam in his lease, when he entered on a larger farm, 
about ten miles farther in the country. The nature of the 
bargain he made was such as to throw a little ready money into 
his hands at the commencement of his lease; otherwise the 
affair would have been impracticable. For fouj years we lived 
comfortable here ; but a difference commjcncing between him 
and his landlord as to terms, after three years^ tossing and 
whirling in the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved 
from the horrors of a jail by a consumption, which, after two 
years' promises, kindly stepped in, and cai'ried him away, to 
where the wicked cease from trouhlincf, and the weary are at 
rest" 

" It is during the time that we lived on this farm that my 
little story is most eventfuL I was, at the begining of this 
period, perhaps the most ungainly, awkward bay in the parish — 
no solitaire was less acquainted with the ways of the world. 
What I knew of ancient story was gathered from Salmon's and 
Guthrie's Geographical Grammars ; and the ideas I had formed 
of modern manners, of literature, and criticism, I got from the 
Spectator. These, with Pope's Works, some plaj^s of Shakspeare, 
Tull and Dicison on Agriculture, the Pantheon, Locke's Essay 
©n the Human Understanding, Stackhouse's History of the 
Bible, Justice's British Gardener's Directory, Bayle's Lectures, 
AUan Ramsay's Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original 
Sin, A Select Collection of English Songs, and Hervey's Medi- 
tations, hoxl formed the whole of my reading. The collection 
of songs was my vade mecum. I pored over them driving my 
eart, or walkmg to labour, song by song, verse by ^crse— 



15URMS' LIBRARY. 



17 



carefully notmg the true, tender, or sublime, from aSiectation 
and fustian. I £m convinced £ ov/e to this prtctiice much <tf 
tny (sitic craft, sach as it k." 

*' In my seveateenth year, to give my manners a l5nish, I 
went to a country dancing-schooL My father had an unac- 
countable antipathy against these meetings, and my going was, 
what to this moment I repent, in oppositi<?n to his wishes. 
My i&ther, as I said before, was subj«^ct to strong passions ; frsKi 
tltat intance -of disobedience in mc he took a sortof dislike to 
me. which I beheve was one cause ef the dissipation which 
marked -my succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively 
with the strictness^ and sobiiety, and regularity, of Presbyterian 
C(xintry life ; for though the Will o' Wisp meteors of thought- 
less whim were almost the sole lights of my path, yet early 
ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several years afterwards 
within t^e line of innocence. The great misfortmie of my life 
was to want an aim. I had felt early some stirrings of ambition, 
but they were the Mind gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the 
walk -of his cave. I saA?/ my fatli^'s situation entailed on me 
perpetual labour. The only two openings by which I could 
enter the temple of fortune, was the gate of niggardly economj^ 
or the path of little, chicaning bargain-making. The first is so 
contracted an aperture, I never could squeeze myself into it ; 
the last I always hated — tliere was contamnation in the very 
entcanoe ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, with a sti'ong 
appetite for sociabiht}^, as well from native hilarity as from a 
pride of observation and remark — a csnstitutional melancholy -or 
hypochondriasm that made me fly to scUtude ; add to these 
incentives to social hfe, m}^ reputation fer bookish knowledge, a 
certain wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, something 
like the rudiments cf good sense, and it will not seem surprisiiig 
tlmt I was generally a welcome guest where I visited, or any 
gi^at wonder that, always where two or three met together, 
there was I among them. But far bej'ond all other impulses of 
my heart, was un penchant a V adorable moltie chi genre 
Jmmain. My heart was completely tindei', and was eternally 
lighted up by some goddess or other ; and, as in every oth^ 
warfare in this werld, my fortune was various, sometimes I was 
received with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a 
repulse. At the plough, 8C3'the, or reaphook, I feared no com- 
petitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance ; and as I nevei* 
caared ^thei* for my labours than while I was in actual exercise, 
I spent the evenings in the waj^ after my own heart. A country 
lad seldom carries on a love-adventure without an assistmg 
confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity, 
that recommended me as a proper second on these occasions ; 
and 1 dare say I felt as much pleasure in being in the sea'et of half 
tlie loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in 
knowing the intrigues of half the courts of Europe, The very 
goose-feather in my hand seems to know instinctively the well- 
worn path of my imagination, the favourite theme of my song-, 
and is with difficulty restrained from giving you a couple of 
paragraphs on the love-adventures of my compeers, the humble 
2 c3 



38 



LIFE OF BUKNS. 



inmates of the farm-nouse and cotUgp. j but the grave men of 
Bcience, ambitioD, or avarice, baptise these things by the name 
of follies. To the sods and daughters of labour and poverty 
they ai'e matters of the most serious jiatuve; to them, thi 
ardent hope, the stolen interview, the tender farewell, are the 
greatest and most delicious j>arts of their enjoyments." 

"Another circumstance in my life which made some alteration 
in my mind and manners was, that I spent ray nineteejith 
summer on a smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at 
a noted school, to learn mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c., 
in which I made a pretty good progress. But I made a greater 
progress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade 
was at that time very successful, and it sometimes happened to 
me to fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes of swagger- 
ing riot and roaring dissipation were till this time new to me ; 
but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though 1 learnt to fill 
my glass, and to mix without fear in a di-unken squabble, yet I 
went on with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun 
entered Virgo, a month which is always a carnival in my bosom, 
when a charming Jilette, who lived next door to the school, 
overset my trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent ft-om the 
sphere of my studies. 1, however, struggled on with my sines 
and co-sincs for a few da}'s more ; but stepping into the garden 
one charming noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met my 
angel, 

* Like Proserpine, gathering flowers, 
Horself a fairer flower ' 

It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The 
remaining week I staid I did nothing but ci-aze the faculties of 
my soul about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last 
nights of my stay in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, 
the image pi this modest and innocent girl had kept me 
guiltless." 

" I returned home very considerably improved. My reading 
was enlarged with the ver}'' important addition of Thompson's 
and Shenstone's Works. I had seen human nature in a new 
phasis ; and I engaged several of my school-fellows to keep up 
a literary correspondence with me. This improved me in 
composition. I had met with a collection of letters by the wits 
of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them most devoutly ; 
I kept copies of any of my own letters that pleased me ; and a 
comparison between them and the composition of most of my 
correspondents flattered my vanity. I had carried this whim so 
far, that though I had not three farthings' worth of business in 
the world, yet almost every post brought me as many letters as 
if I had been a broad plodding son of day-book and ledger." 

" My life flowed on much in the same course till my twentj'- 
third year. Vive Vamour, et vive la bagatelle, were my sole 
principles of action. The addition of two more authors to my 
hbrary gave me great pleasure; Sterne and M'Kenzie. Tristram 
Shandy and llie Man of Feeling were my bosom favourites. 
Poesy was still a darling walk for my mind, but it was oiUy 



LUCKLESS FARMING SPECULATION. 19 

indulged in according to the humonr of the hour. I had 
usualfy half a dozen or more pieces on hand; I took 
up one or other, as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, 
and dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. My passions, 
when once Hghted up, raged like so many devils, till they got 
vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over my verses, like a 
spell, soothed all into quiet ! None of the rhymes of those days 
are in print, except Winter, a Dirge, the eldest of my printed 
pieces ; The death of Poor Mailie, John Barleycorn, and songs 
first, second, and third. Song second was the ebuUition of that 
passion which ended the fore-mentioned school business." 

*' My twenty-third year was to me an important era. Partly 
through whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing some- 
thing in life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring town, 
(Irvine,) to learn his trade. This was an unlucky affair. My 
* * * ; and, to finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome 
carousal to the new-year, the shop took fire, and burnt to ashes, 
and I was left, Hke a true poet, not worth a sixpence." 

" I was obliged to give up the scheme : the clouds of misfor- 
tune were gathering thick round my father's head ; and, what 
was worst of all, he was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and, 
to crown my distresses, a hellejille whom I adored, and who 
had pledged her soul to meet me in the field of matrimony, 
jilted me, with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The 
finishing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal file, was 
my constitutional melancholy beingincreased to such a degree, that 
for three months I v/as in a state of mind scarcely to be envied 
by the hopeless wretches who have got their mittimus — Depart 
from me^ ye accursed ! " 

From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but 
the principal thing which gave my mind a turn was a friendship 
I formed with a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hap- 
less son of misfortune. He was the son of a simple mechanic : 
but a great man in the neighbourhood taking him under his 
patronage, gave him a genteel education, w^ith a view of bettering 
his situation in life. The patron d}4ng just as he was ready to 
launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to 
S'?a, where, after a variety of good and ill fortune, a little before 
I was acquainted wath him, be had been set on shore by an Ame- 
rican privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped of ever j'- 
thing. I cannot quit this poor fellow's story without adding, 
that he is at this time master of a large West-Indiaman belong- 
ing to the Thames." 

His mind was fraught with independence, magnanimity, and 
every manly virtue. I loved and admired him to a degi-ee of 
enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. In some mea- 
sure I succeeded — I had pride before me, but he taught it to 
flow in proper channels. His knovvledge of the world was vastly 
superior to mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was the 
only man I ever saw who was a greater fool than mj^self where 
woman was the presiding star ; but he spoke of illicit love with 
the levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with hor- 
ror. Here his friendship did me a mischief; and the conge- 



20 LIFE OP BURNS. 

quence was, tnat sooii after I resumed tne plough, I wrote the 
Poet's Welcome. My reading only increased, while in this 
town, by two straj' volumes of Pamela, and one of Ferdinand 
Count Fathom, wliich gave me some idea of novels. Rhyme, 
except some religious pieces that are in print, I had given up ; 
but meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew 
my wildly-sounding lyre wath emulating vigour. When my 
father died, his all went among the hell-hounds that prowl in 
the kennel of justice; but we made a shift to collect a little 
money in the family among us, with wliich to keep us together ; 
my brother and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother 
wanted my hair-brained imagination, as well as my social and 
amorous madness; but in good sense, and every other sober 
qualitication, he was far my superior." 

" I entered on this farm with a full resolution, Come, go to, 
I will he wise ! I read farming books ; I calculated crops ; 
I attended markets — and, in short, iu spite of the devil, and 
the world, and the fiesh, I believe I should have been a wise 
man ; but the lirstyear, from unfortunately buying bad seed, the 
second, from a late harvest, we lost half our crops. This overset 
all my wisdom, and I returned, like the dog to his vomit, and 
the sow that was washed, to her wallowing in the mire.'* 

" I now began to be known in the neighbourhood as a maker 
of rhymes. The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light 
was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend 
Calvinists, both of them dramatis jpersonce in my Holy Fair. 
I had a notion myself that the piece had some merit ; but to 
prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend who was fond 
of such things, and told him that I could not guess who was 
the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a 
certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar 
of applause. Holy Willie's Prayer next made its appearance, and 
alarmed the kirk session so much, that they held several meet- 
ings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might 
be pointed against profane writers. Unluckily for me, my wan- 
derings led me on another side, within point-blank shot of their 
heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate story that gave rise to 
my printed poem — The Lament. This was a most melancholy 
affiiir, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly 
given me one or two of the principal quahfications for a place 
among those who have lost the chart, and mistaken the reckon- 
ing, of rationality. I gave up my part of the farm to my bro- 
ther — in truth it was only nominally mine — and made what little 
preparation was in my power for Jamaica. But before leaving 
my native country for ever, I resolved to publish my poems. 
I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power : I 
thought they had merit, and it was a delicious idea that I should 
be callcni a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my 
ears — a poor negro-driver ; or perhaps a victim to that inhospi- 
table chme, and gone to the world of spirits ! I c^n truly say, 
th&cpaunre iyiconmc as I then was, I had pretty nearly as high 
an idea of myself and of my works as I have at this moment, 
wheii the pubUc has decided in their favour. It ever was my 



LUCKLESS FARMING SPECULATION. 21 

opinion, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and 
religious point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, 
are owing to their ignorance of themselves. To know mysell 
had been all along my constant study. I weighed myself alone. 
I balanced myself with others — I watched every means of 
information, to see how much ground I occupied as a man and 
as a poet ; — I studied assiduously Nature's design in my forma- 
tion — where the hghts and shades in my character were 
intended. I was pretty confident my poems would meet with 
some applause ; but, at the worst, the roar of the Atlantic would 
deafen censure, and the novelty of West-Indian scenes make 
me forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, ot which I 
had got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty. My 
vanity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from 
the public ; and, besides, I pocketed, all expenses deducted., 
nearly twenty pounds. This sum came very seasonably, as I 
was thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure 
my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price 
of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage passage in 
the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde ; for 

* Hungry ruin had me in the wind.* 

" I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, 
under all the terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had 
uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels, I had 
taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my chest w as on the 
road to Greenock ; I had composed the last song I should ever 
measure in Caledonia — The Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast- 
when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine overthrew 
all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambi- 
tion. Tne doctor belonged to a set of critics for whose applause 
I had not dared to hope. His opinion, that I would meet with 
encouragement in Edinburgh for a second edition, fired ire so 
much, that away I posted for that city, without a single acquaint- 
ance, or a single letter of introduction. The baneful star that 
had so long shed its blasting influence in my zenith, for once 
made a revolution to the nadir ; and a kind Providence placed 
me under the patronage of one of the noblest of men, the Earl 
ofGlencairn. Obliemoi, Grand Dieu, si Jamais JeVohlie!'* 

" I need relate no farther. At Edinbm-gh I was in a new 
world ; I mingled among many classes of men, but all of them 
new to me, and I was all attention to catcJi the characters and 
the manners living as they rise. Whether I have profited time 
will shew. ^ * * " 

" My most respectful compliments to Miss W. Her very 
elegant and friendly letter I cannot answer at present, as my 
presence is requisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow." 

At the period of our poet's death, his brother, Gilbert Burns, 
was ignorant that he had himself written the foregoing narra- 
tive of his life while in A jTshire ; and having been apphed to by 
Mrs. Duulop for some memoir of his brother, he compUed with 
her request in a letter, from which the following narrative is 
chiefly extracted. When Gilbert Bums afterwards saw the lettet 



22 LIFE OP BURNS. 

of our poet to Dr. IMoore, he made some annotations upon it, 
which shall be noticed as we proceed. 

Robert Bui-ns was born on the 2oth day of Januarj--, 1795, iu 
a siQall house about two miles from the town of Ajt, and within 
a few hundred yards of Alio way church, which his poem of Tam 
o' Shanter has rendered immortal. The name, which the poet 
^d his brother modernised into Burns, was originally Burnes or 
Burness. Their father, WilUam Burnes, was the son of a farmer 
in Kincardineshire, and had received the education common in 
Scotland to persons in his condition of life ; he could read and 
write, and had some knowledge of arithmetic. His family 
having fallen into reduced circumstances, he was compelled to 
leave his home in his nineteenth year, and turned his steps 
towards the south, in quest of a Hvelihood. The same necessity 
attended his elder brother Robert. " I have often heard my 
father " (says Gilbert Burns, in his letter to Mrs. Dunlop), 
*' describe the anguish of mind he felt when they parted on the 
top of a hill on the confines of their native place, each going off 
his several way in search of new adventures, and scarcely know- 
ing whither he went. My father undertook to act as a gar- 
dener, and shaped his course to Edinburgh, where he wrought 
hard when he could get work, passing through a variety of diffi- 
culties. StiU, however, he endeavoured to spare something for 
the support of his aged parent ; and I recollect hearing him men- 
tion his ha\'ing sent a bank-note for this purpose, when money 
of that kind was so scarce in Kincardineshire, that they scarcely 
knew how to employ it when it arrived." From Edinburgh 
Wilham Burns passed westward into the county of Ajt, where 
he engaged himself as a gardenertotheLairdof Fairly, with whom 
he hved two years ; then changing his service for that of Craw- 
ford of Doonside. At length, being desirous of settling in life, 
he took a perpetual lease of seven acres of land from Dr. Camp- 
bell, physician in Ayr, with the view of commencing nursery- 
man and pubhc gardener ; and, having built a house upon it 
with his own hands, maiTied, in December, 1757, Agnes Brown, 
the mother of our poet, who still survives. The first fruit of 
this marriage was Robert, the subject of these memoirs, born 
on the 25th of January, 1759, as has already been mentioned. 
Before WiUiam Burns had made much progress in preparing 
his nursery, he was vvdthdi-awn from that undertaking by Mr. 
Ferguson, who purchased the estate of Doonholm, in the imme- 
diate neighbourhood, and engaged him as his gardener and over- 
seer; and this was his situation when our poet was bom. 
Though in the service of ]\Ir. Ferguson, he lived in his own 
house, his wife managing her family and her little dairy, which 
consisted sometimes of two, sometimes of three milch cows ; and 
this state of unambitious content continued till the year 1766. 
His son Robert was sent by him in his sixth year to a school at 
Alloway Miln, about a mile distant, taught by a person of the 
name of Cambell; but this teacher being in a few months 
appointed master of the workhouse at Ayr, William Burnes, in 
conjunction with some other heads of famiUes, engaged John 
Murdoch in his stead. The education of our poet, and of his 



WILLIAM BURNES OR BURNS. 23 

orother Gilbert, was in common ; and of their proficiency under 
Mr. Mm"doch, we have the following account : — " With him wo 
learnt to read English tolerably well, and to write a little. He 
taught us, too, the English grammar. 1 was too young to profit 
much from his lessons in grammar, but Robert made some pro- 
ficiency in it — a circumstance of considerable weight in the 
unfolding of his genius and character, as he soon became remjirka- 
ble for the fluency and correctness of his expression, and read 
the few books that came in his way with much pleasure an , 
improvement : for even then he was a reader when he could ge«i 
a book. Murdoch, whose library at that time had no great 
variety in it, lent him The Life of Hannibal, which was the first 
book he read, (the school-books excepted), and almost the only 
one he had the opportunity of reading while he was at school ; 
for The liife of Wallace, which he classes with it in one of his 
letters to you, he did not see for some years afterwards, when 
he borrowed it from the blacksmith who shod our horses." 

It appears that William Burnes approved himself greatly in 
the service of Mr. Ferguson, by his intelligence, industry, and 
integrity. In consequence of this, with a view of promoting 
his interest, Mr. Ferguson leased him a farm, of which we have 
the following account : — 

" The farm was upwards of seventy acres, (between eighty and 
ninety English statute measure), the rent of which was to be • 
forty pounds annually for the first six years, and afterwards 
forty-five pounds. My father endeavoured to sell his leasehold 
property, for the purpose of stocking his farm, but at that time 
was unable, and Mr. Ferguson lent him a hundred pounds for 
that purpose. He removed to his new situation at WTiitsuntide, 
1766. It was, I think, not above two years after this that Mur- 
doch, our tutor and friend, left this part of the country, and 
there being no school near us, and our Uttle services being useful 
on the farm, my father undertook to teach us arithmetic in the 
winter evenings, by candle-light ; and in this way my two eldest 
sisters got all the education they received. I remember a cir- 
cumstance that happened at this time, which, though trifling in 
itself, is fresh in my memorj^, And may serve to illustrate the 
early character of my brother. Murdoch came to spend anight 
with us, and to take his leave when he was about to go into 
Carrick. He brought us, as a present and memorial of him, a 
small compendium of English grammar, and the tragedy of 
Titus Andronicus, and, by way of passing the evening, he began 
to read the play aloud. We were aU attention for some time, 
till presently the whole party was dissolved in tears. A female 
in the play (I have but a confused remembrance of it), had her 
hands chopped ofi^, and her tongue cutout, and then was insult- 
ingly desired to call for water to wash her hands. At this, in 
an agony of distress, we with one voice desired he would read 
no more. My father observed, that if we would not hear it out 
it would be needless to leave the play ^vith us, Robert rephed 
that if it was left he would burn it. My father was going to 
chide him for this ungrateful return to his tutor's kindness, but 
Murdoch interfered, declaring that he liked to see so much sen- 



24 LIFE OF BURNS. 

pibility ; and he left the School for Love, a comedy, translated 
I think from the French, in its place.'* 

" Nothing," continues Gilbert Bums, " could be more 
retired than oiu- general manner of Hving at Mount Ohphant; 
we rarely saw anybody but the members of oiur own family. 
There were no boys of our own age, or near it, in the neigh- 
bourhood. Indeed, the greatest part of the land in the vicinity 
was at that time possessed by shopkeepers, and people of that 
stamp, who had retired from business, or who kept their farm 
in the country, at the same time that they followed business in 
town. My father was for seme time almost the only companion 
we had. He conversed famiharly on all subjects with us, as if 
we had been men ; and was at great pains, while we accompanied 
him in the labours of the farm, to lead the conversation to such 
subjects as might tend to increase our knowledge, or confirm us 
in virtuous habits. He borrowed Salomon's Geographical Gram- 
mar for us, and endeavoured to make us acquainted with the 
situation and history of the different countries of the world ; 
while from a book society in Ayr, he procured for us the reading 
of Durham's Physico and Astro-Theology, and flay's Wisdom 
of God in the Creation, to give us some idea of astronomy and 
natural history. Kobert read all these books with an avidity 
and industry scarcely to be equalled. My father had been a 
subscriber to Stackhouse's History of the Bible, then lately pub- 
hshed by James Meuros in Kilmarnook ; from this Robert col- 
lected a competent knowledge of ancient history ; for no book 
was so voluminous as to slacken his industry, or so antiquated 
as to damp his researches. A brother of my mother, who had 
lived with us some time, and had learned some arithmetic by 
our winter evening's candle, went into a bookseller's shop at Ayr, 
to pm-chase The Ready Reckoner, or Tradesman's Sure Guide, 
and a book to teach him to wiite letters. Luckily, in place of 
The Complete Letter Writer, he got by mistake a small collec- 
tion of letters- by the most eminent writers, with a few sensible 
directions for attaining an easy epistolary style. This book 
was to Robert of the greatest consequence. It inspired him 
with a strong desire to excel in letter-writing, while it furnished 
him with models by some of the first writers in our language." 

" My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, when my father, 
regretting that we wrote so ill, sent us, week about, during a 
summer quarter, to the parish school of Dalrymple, which, 
though between two and three miles distant, was the nearest to 
us, that we might have an opportunity of remed}'ing this defect. 
About this time a bookish acquaintance of my father's procured 
us a reading of two volumes of Richardson's Pamela, which was 
the first novel we read, and the only part of Richardson's works 
my brother was acquainted with till the period of his commenc- 
ing author, TiU that time, too, he remained unacquainted with 
Fielding, with Smollett, (two volumes of Ferdinand Count 
Fathom, and two volumes of Peregrine Pickle excepted,) with 
Hume, with Robertson, and almost all our authors of eminence 
of the later times. I recollect, indecnl, my father borrowed a 
f olume of Enghsh history from Mr. Hamilton of Bourtreehili'b 



BURNS STUDIES LATIN. 25 

gardener. It treated of the reign of James I., and his unfortu- 
nate son Charles, but I do not know who was the author ; all 
that I remember of it was something of Charles's conversation 
with his children. About this time, Murdoch, our former 
teacher, after having been in different places in the country, and 
having taught a school some time in Dumfries, came to be the 
established teacher of the English language in Ajrr, a circum- 
stance of consequence to us. The remembrance of my father's 
former friendship, and his attachment to my brother, made him 
do everything in his power for our improvement. He sent us 
Pope's works, and some other poetry, the first that we had an 
opportunity of reading, excepting what is contained in the Eng- 
lish Collection, and in the volume of the Edinburgh Magazine 
for 1772 ; excepting also those excellent new songs that are 
hawked about the country in baskets, or exposed on stalls in the 
streets." 

" The summer after we had been at Dalrymple school, my 
father sent Robert to Ajt, to revise his English grammar with 
his former teacher. He had been there only one week, when he 
was obliged to return to assist at the harvest. When the 
harvast was over, he went back to school, where he remained 
two weeks ; and this completes the account of his school educa- 
tion, excepting one summer quainter, some time afterwards, that 
he attended the parish school of Kirkoswald, (where he lived 
with a brother of my mother's,) to learn surveying." 

" During the two last weeks that he was with Murdoch, he 
himself was engaged in learning French, and he communicated 
the instructions he received to my brother, who, when he 
returned, brought home with him a French dictionary and 
grammar, and the Adventures of Telemachus in the original. 
In a little while, with the assistance of these books, he had 
acquired such a knowledge of the language, as to read and under- 
stand any French author in prose. This was considered as a 
sort of prodigy, and through the medium of Murdoch, procured 
him the acquaintance of several lads in Ayr, who were at that 
time gabbling French, and the notice of some families, particu- 
larly that of Dr. Malcolm, where a knowledge of French was 
a recommendation." 

" Observing the facility with which he had acquired the French 
language, Mr. Robinson, the established writing-master in Ayr, 
and Mr. Murdoch's particular friend, having himself acquired a 
considerable knowledge of the Latin language by his own indus- 
try, without ever having learned it at school, advised Robert to 
make the same attempt, promising him every assistance in his 
power. Agreeably to this advice, he purchased the rudiments 
of the Latin Tongue, but finding the study dry and uninterest- 
ing, it was quickly laid aside. He frequently returned to his 
Rudiments on any little chagrin or disappointment, particularly 
in his 'love affairs ; but the Latin seldom predominated more than 
a day or two at a time, or a week at most. Observing himself 
the ridicule that would attach to this sort of conduct if it were 
known, he made two or three humourous stanzas on the subject, 
which I cannot now recollect, but they all ended, 

* So I'll to my Latin again." D 



26 LIFE OF BURNS. 

" Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a principal means of my 
brother's improvement. Worthy man ! though foreign to my 
present purpose, I cannot take leave of him without tracing his 
future history. He continued for some years a respected and 
useful teacher at Ayr, till one evening that he had been over- 
taken in liquor, he happened to speak somewhat disrespectfully 
of Dr. Dalrymple, the parish minister, who had not paid him 
that attention to which he thought himself entitled. In Ajt he 
might as well have spoken blasphemy. He found it proper to 
give up his appointment. He went to London, where he still 
lives, a private teacher of French. He has been a considerable 
time maiTied, and keeps a shop of stationery wares." 

" The father of Dr. Patersou, now physician at Ayr, was, I 
believe, a native of Aberdeenshire, and was one of the estabhshed 
teachers in Ajt when my father settled in the neighbourhood. 
He early recognised my father as a fellow native of the north of 
Scotland, and a certain degree of intimacy subsisted between 
them during Mr. Paterson's Hfe. After his death, his widow, 
who is a very genteel woman, and of great worth, delighted in 
doing what she thought her husband would have wished to have 
done, and assiduously kept up her attentions to all his acquaint- 
ances. She kept ahve the intimacy with our family, by fre- 
quently inviting my father and mother to her house on Sundays, 
when she met them at church." 

" "VVlien she came to know my brother's passion for books, 
she kindly offered us the use of her husband's library, and from 
her we got the Spectator, Pope's Translation of Homer, and 
several other books that were of use to us. Mount Oliphant, 
the farm my father possessed in the parish of Ayr, is almost the 
poorest soil I know of in a state of cidtivation. A stronger proof 
of this I cannot give than that, notwithstanding the extraordi- 
nary rise in the value of lands in Scotland, it was let, after a 
considerable sum had been laid out in improving it by the pro- 
prietor, a few years ago, five pounds per annum lower than the 
rent paid for it by my father thirty years ago. My father, in 
consequence of this, soon came into difficulties, which were 
increased by the loss of several of his cattle by accidents and 
disease. To the buffetings of misfortune we could only oppose 
hard labour and the most rigid economy. We lived very spar- 
ingly. For several years butcher's meat was a stranger in the 
house, while all the members of the family exerted themselves 
to the utmost of their strength, and rather beyond it, in the 
labours of the farm. My brother, at the age of thirteen, assisted 
in thrashing the crop of corn, and at fifteen was the principal 
labourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male or 
female. The anguish of mind we felt, at our tender years, under 
these straits and difficulties, was, indeed, very great. To 
think of our father growing old (for he was now above fifty), 
broken down with the long-continued fatigues of his life, with a 
wife and five other children, and in a declining state of circum- 
Btances— these reflections produced in my brother's mind and 
mine sensations of the deepest distress. I doubt not but the 
Lard labour and sorrow of this period of his hfe was in a great 



WILLIAM BURNES OR BURNS. 27 

measure the cause of that depression of spirits with which 
Robert was so often afflicted through his whole hfe afterwards. 
At this time he was ahnost constautly afflicted in the evenings 
with a dull headache, which, at a future period of his hfe, was 
exchanged for a palpitation of the heart, and a threatening of 
fainting and suffocation in his bed in the night-time." 

" By a stipulation in my father's lease, he had a right to throw 
it up, if he thought fit, at the end of every sixth year. He 
attempted to fix himself in a better farm at the end of the first 
six years, but failing in that attempt, he continued where he was 
for six years more. He then took the farm of Lochlea, of 130 
acres, at the rent of twenty shilhngs an acre, in the parish of 

Tarbolton, of Mr. , then a merchant in Ayr, and now 

(1797) a merchant in Liverpool. He removed to this farm on 
Whit-Sunday, 1777, and possessed it only seven years. No 
wilting had ever been made out of the conditions of the lease ; 
a misunderstanding took place respecting them ; the subjects in 
dispute were submitted to arbitration, and the decision involved 
my father's affairs in ruin. He lived to know of this decision, 
but not to see any execution in consequence of it. He died on 
I3th of February, 1784." 

" The seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish (extending 
from the 19th to the 26th year of my brother's a^e), were not 
marked by much literary improvement ;. but dm-ing this time 
the foundation was laid of certain habits in my brother's 
character, which afterwards became but too prominent, and 
which malice and envy have taken delight to enlarge on. Though 
when young he was bashful and awkward in his intercourse with 
women, yet, when he approached manhood, his attachment to 
their society became very strong, and he was constantly the vic- 
tim of some fair enslaver. The symptoms of his passion were 
often such as nearly to equal those of the celebrated Sappho. I 
never indeed knew that he fainted^ sunk, and died away ; 
but the agitations of his mind and body exceeded anything of 
the kind I ever knew in real life. He had always a particular 
jealousy of people who were richer than himself, or who had 
more consequence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on 
persons of this description. When he selected any one out of 
the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom he should pay 
his particular attention, she was instantly invested with a suffi- 
cient stock of charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own 
imagination ; and there was often a great dissimilitude between 
his fair captivator, as she appeared to others, and as she seemed 
when invested in the attributes he gave her. One generally 
reigned paramount in his afiections ; but as Yorisk's affections 
flowed out towards Madame de L — at the remise door, while 
the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so Robert was fre- 
quently encountering other attractions, which formed so many 
underplots in the drama of his love. As these conne<)tions were 
governed by the strictest rules of virtue and modesty (from which 
he never deviated till he reached his 23rd year), he became 
anxious to be in a situation to marry. Tins was not likely soon 
to be the case while he remained a farmer, as the stocking of the 



£8 LIFE OP BUENB. 

farm required a sum of money he had no probabilitj' of being 
master of for a great while. He began, therefore, to think ol 
trying some other hne of life. He and I had for several years 
taken land of my father for the purpose of raising flax on our 
own account. In the course of selling it, Robert began to think 
of turning flax-dresser, both as being suitable to his grand view 
of settling in life, and as subservient to the Aax raising. He 
accordingly wrought at the business of a flax-dresser in Irvine 
for six months,, but abandoned it at that period, as neither 
agreeing with his health nor inclination. In Irvine he had con- 
tracted some acquaintance of a freer manner of thinking and 
living than he had been used to, whose society prepared him 
for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue which had hitherto 
restrained him. Towards the end of the period under review, 
(in his 26th year,) and soon after his father's death, he was fur- 
nished with the subject of his epistle to John Rankin. During 
this period also he became a freemason, which was his first intro- 
duction to the life of a boon companion. Yet, notwithstanding 
the circumstances and the praise he has bestowed on Scotch 
drink, (which seems to have misled his historians,) I do not 
recollect, during these seven years, nor till towards the end of 
his commencing author, (when his growing" celebrity occasioned 
his being often in company) to have ever seen him intoxicated ; 
nor was he at all given to drinking. A stronger proof of the 
general sobriety of his conduct need not be required than what 
I am about to give. During the whole of the time we lived in 
Lochlea with my father, he allowed my brother and me such 
wages for our labour as he gave to other labourers, as a part of 
which, every article of our clothing manufactured in the family 
was regularly accounted for. When my father's affairs drew 
near a crisis, Robert and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting 
of 11 8 acres, at the rent of £90 per annum, (the farm on which 
I live at present,) from Mr. Gavin Hamilton, as an asyhim for 
the family in case of the worst. It was stocked by the property 
and individual savings of the whole family, and was a joint con- 
cern among us. Every member of the family was allowed ordi- 
nary wages for the labour he performed on the farm, My bro- 
ther's allowance and mine was seven pounds per annum each, 
and during the whole time this family concern lasted, which 
was for four years, as well as during the preceding period at 
Lochlea, his expenses never in any one year exceeded his slender 
income. As I was entrusted with the keeping of the family 
accounts, it is not possible that there can be any fallacy in this 
statement in my brother's favour. His temperance and fruga- 
lity were everything that could be wished." 

" The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and mostly on a cold 
wet bottom. The first four years that we were on the farm 
were very frosty, and the spring was very late ; our crops in 
consequence were very unprofitable ; and, notwithstanding our 
utmost diligence and economy, we found ourselves obliged to 
give up oiu: bargain, with the loss of a considerable part of oui 
original stock. It was during these four years that Robert 
formed his connexion with Jean Armour, afterwards Mr». 



BtJBNS AT MOSSaiEL. 29 

Burns. This connexion could no longer he concealed about the 
time we came to a final determination to quit the farm. Robert 
durst not engage with a family in his poor unsettled state, 
but was anxious to sliield his partner, by every means in his 
power, from the consequences of their imprudence. It was 
agreed, therefore, between them, that they should make a legal 
acknowledgment of an irregular and private marriage ; and that 
he should go to Jamaica to push his fortune ; and that she 
should remain with her father till it might please Providence 
to put the means sf supporting a family in his power." 

" Mrs. Burns was a great favourite of her father's. The inti- 
mation of a marriage was the first suggestion he received of her 
real situation. He was in the greatest distress, and fainted 
away. The marriage did not appear to him to make the matter 
better. A husband in Jamaica appeared to him and his wife 
little better than none, and an effectual bar to any other pros- 
pects of a settlement in life that their daughter might have. 
They therefore expressed a wish to her, that the written papers 
which respected the marriage should be cancelled, and thus the 
marriage rendered void. In her melancholy state, she felt the 
deepest remorse at having brought such heavy affliction on her 
parents, who loved her so tenderly, and submitted to their 
entreaties. Their wish was mentioned to Robert. He felt the 
deepest anguish of mind. He offered to stay at home and pro- 
vide for his wife and family in the best manner that his daily 
labours could provide for them, that being the only means in 
his power. Even this ofier they did not approve of ; for humble 
as Miss Armour's station was, and though great her imprudence 
had been, she still, in the eyes of her partial parents, might 
look to a better connexion than that with my fi'iendless and 
unhappy brother, at that time without house or hiding-place. 
Robert at length consented to their wishes ; but his feelings on 
this occasion were of the most distracting nature: and the 
impression of sorrow was not effaced till by a regular marriage 
they were indissolubly united. In the state of mind which this 
separation produced, he wished to leave the country as soon as 
possible, and agreed with Dr. Douglas to go out to Jamaica as 
an assistant overseer, or, as I believe it is called, a bookkeeper, 
on his estate. As he had not sufficient money to pay his pas- 
sage, and the vessel in which Dr. Douglas was to procure a pas- 
sage for him was not expected to sail for some time, Mr. Hamil- 
ton advised him to publish his poems in the mean time by sub- 
scription, as a likely way of getting a little money, to provide 
him more liberally in necessaries in Jamaica. Agreeably to this 
advice, subscription-bills were printed immediately, and the 
printing was commenced at Kilmarnock, his preparations going 
on at the same time for his voyage. The reception, however, 
which his poems met with in the world, and the friends they 
procured him, made him change his resolution df going to 
Jamaica, and he was advised to go to Edinburgh to pubHsh a 
second edition. On his return, in happier circumstances, he 
renewed his connection with Mrs. Burns, and rendered it per- 
manent by a union for life." 

1)3 



80 XIPB OF BUEKS. 

"Thus, madam, have I endeavoured to give you a simple 
narrative of the leading circumstances in my brother's early life. 
The remaining part he spent in Edinburgh, or in Dumfriesshire^ 
and its incidents are as well known to you as to me. His genius 
having procured him your patronage and friendship, this gave 
rise to tlie correspondence between you, in which, I believe, his 
sentiments were dehvered with the most respectful, but most 
unreserved confidence, and which only terminated with the last 
days of his life." 

The narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve as a commentary 
on the preceding sketch of our poet's life by himself. It will 
be seen that the distraction of mind which he mentions arose 
from the distress and sorrow in which he had involved his future 
wife. The whole circumstances attending this connexion are 
certainly of a very singular nature. 

The reader will perceive, from the foregoing naiTative, haw 
much the children of William Burnes were indebted to their 
father, who was certainly a man of uncommon talents, though 
it does not appear that he possessed any portion of that vivid 
imagination for which the subject of these memoirs was distin- 
guished. In a former page it is observed by our poet, that his 
father had an unaccountable antipathy to dancing-schools, and 
that his attending one of these brought on him his displeasure and 
even dislike. On this observation Gilbert has made the following 
remark, which seems entitled to implicit credit : — "I wonder 
how Robert could attribute to our fatli^r that lasting resentment 
of his going to a dancing- school against his will, of which he 
was incapable. I beJieve the truth was, that he, about this 
time, began to see the dangerous impetuosity of my brother's 
passions, as well as his not being amenable to counsel, which 
often in-itated my father, and which he would naturally think a 
dancing-school was not likely to correct. But he was proud of 
Robert's genius, which he bestowed more expense in cultivating 
than on the rest of the family, in the instances of sending him 
to Ayr and Kirkoswald schools ; and he was greatly delighted 
with his warmth of heart and his conversational powers. He 
had, indeed, that dislike of dancing-schools which Robert men- 
tions, but so far overcame it during Robert's first month of 
attendance, that he allowed all the rest of the famil}^ that were 
fit for it to accompany him during the second month. Robert 
excelled in dancing, and was for some time distractedly fond 
of it." 

" In the original letters to Dr. Moore, our poet described his 
ancestors as renting lands of the noble Keiths of Marischal, 
and having had the honour of sharing their fate." " I do not," 
continues he, " use the word honor with any reference to politi- 
cal principles ; loyal and disloyal I take to be merely relative 
terms, in that ancient and formidable court, known in the 
country as Club-law, where the right is always with the strongest. 
But those who dare welcome ruin, and shake hands with infamy, 
for what they scarcely believe to be the cause of their God, or 
their king, are, as Mark Anthony says, in Shakspeare, of Brutui 



THE ORIGINAL OF THE COTTEE's SATURDAY NIGHT, 31 

and Cassius, honourable men. I mention tliis circumstance, 
because it threw my father on the world at large.'* 

This paragraph has been omitted in printing the letter, at 
the desire of Gilbert Burns ; and it would have been unnecessary 
to have noticed it on the present occasion, had not several manu- 
script copies of that letter been in circulation. " I do not know," 
observed Gilbert Burns, " how my brother could be misled in 
the account he has given of the Jacobitism of his ancestors. I 
believe the Earl of Marischai forfeited his title and estate in 1715, 
before my father was born ; and among a collection of parish 
certificates in his possession, I have read one stating that the 
bearer had no concern in the late wicked rebellion." On the 
information of one, who knew William Burnes soon after he 
arrived in the country of Ayr, it may be mentioned, that a 
report did prevail that he had taken the field with the young 
Chevalier — a report which the certificate mentioned by Ins son 
was, perhaps, intended to counteract. Strangers from the 
north, in the low country of Scotland, were in those days liable 
to suspicions of having been, in the familiar phrase of the coun- 
try, " Out in the forty-five" (1745), especially when they had 
any stateliness or reserve about them, as was the case with 
WiUiam Burnes. It may easily be conceived, that our poet 
would cherish the belief of his father's having been engaged in 
the daring enterprise of Prince Charles Edward. The generous 
attachment, the heroic valour, and the final misfortunes of the 
adherents of the house of Stuart, touched with sympathy his 
youthful and ardent mind, and influenced his original political 
opinions. 

The father of our poet is described, by one who knew him 
towards the latter end of his life, as above the common stature, 
thin and bent with labour. His countenance was serious 
and expressive, and the scanty locks on his head were grey. 
He was of a religious turn of mind, and, as is usual among the 
Scottish peasantry, a good deal conversant in speculative theo- 
logy. There is, in Gilbert's hands, a little manual of religious 
belief, in the form of a dialogue between a father and his son, 
composed by him for the use of his children, in which the 
benevolence of his heart seems to have led him to soften the 
hgid Calvinism of the Scotch church, into something approach- 
ing to Arminianism. He was a devout man, and in the practice 
of calling his family together to join in prayer. It is known 
that the following exquisite picture, in the Cotter's Saturday 
Night, represents William Burnes and his family at their 
evening devotions : — 

" The cheerful supper done, with serious face, 
They round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 

The sire turns o'er with patriarchal grace, 
The big hall-hihle, once his father's pride : 

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 
His lyart hafFets wearing thin and bare ; 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion gMew 



LIFE OF BURNS, 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And * Let us worship God ! " he says with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
They tune their hearts, hy far the nohlest aim : 

Perhaps Dundee s wild warbling measures rise, 
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 

Or noble JElgin beets the heavenly Hame, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays ; 

Compar'd with these Italian trills are tame, 
The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 

No unison have they with our Creator's praise. 
The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abraham was the fi-iend of God on high : 
Or Moses bade eternal welfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie, 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; ^ 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; 

Or rapt Isaiah wild seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 

How he who bore in heaven the second name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head, 

How his first followers and servants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 

How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 

And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heft- 
ven's command ! 
Then kneeling down to heaven's eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays ; 
* Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing,* 

That thus they all shall meet in future days ; 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise. 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Then homeward all take off their several way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
Tbe parent pair their secret homage pay, 



SHE OEIGINAL OF THE COTTEE*S SATURDAY NIGHT, 33 

And offer up to Heaven the warm request: 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
"Would, in the way his wisdom sees the be&t, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside !'* 

Of a family so interesting as that which inhabited the cottage 
of WiUiam Bumes, and particularly of the father of the family, 
the reader will perhaps be willing to listen to some farther 
account. What follows is given by one already mentioned with 
so much honour in the narrative of Gilbert Burns, Mr. Murdoch, 
the preceptor of our poet, who^ in a letter to Joseph Cooper 
WaUcer, Esq., of Dublin, author of the Historical Memoirs of 
the Irish Bards, and of the Historical Memoir of the ItaHan 
Tragedy, thus expresses himself: — 

" Sir. — I was lately favoured with a letter from our worthy 
friend, the Rev. Wm. Adair, in which he requested me to com- 
municate to you whatever particulars I could recollect concerning 
Robert Burns, the Ayrshire poet. My business being at present 
multifarious and harassing, my attention is consequently so 
much divided, and I am so little in the habit of expressing my 
thoughts on paper, that at this distance of time I can give but 
a very imperfect sketch of the early part of the life of that 
extraordinary genius, ^vith which alone I am acquainted. 

William Burnes, the father of the poet, was born in the shire 
of Kincardine, and bred a gardener. He had been settled in 
Ayrshire ten or twelve years before I knew him, and had been 
in the service of Mr. Crawford of Doonside. He was afterwards 
eiaaployed as a gardener and overseer by Provost Ferguson of 
Doonholm, in the parish of Alloway, which is now united with 
that of Ayr, In this parish, on the roadside, a Scotch mile and 
a half from the town of Ayr, and half a mile from the bridge 
of Doon, William Burnes took a piece of land consisting of 
about seven acres ; part of which he laid out in garden ground, 
and part of which he kept to graze a cow, &c., still continuing 
in the employ of Provost Ferguson. Upon this httle farm was 
erected a humble dwelling, of which William Burnes was the 
architect. It was, with the exception of a httle straw, HteraUy 
a tabernacle of clay. In this mean cottage, of which I myself 
was at times an inhabitant, I really beheve there dwelt a larger 
portion of content than in any palace in Europe. The Cotter's 
Saturday Night will give some idea of the temper and manners 
that prevailed there." 

" In 1765, about the middle of March, Mr. W. Burnes came 
to Ayr, and sent to the school where I was improving in writing 
under my good friend Mr. Robinson, desiring that I would come 
and speak to him at a certain inn, and bring my writing book 
with me. This was immediately (jompHed with. Having 
examined my writing, he was pleased with it — you wiU readily 
allow he was not difficult — and told me that he had received very 
satisfactory information of Mr. Tennant, the master of the 

3 



34 IIFE OP BUEirs. 

English school, concerning my improvement in English, and iu 
his method of teaching. In the month of May following, I was 
engaged by Mr. Burnes, and four of his neighbours, to teach, 
and accordingly began to teach the school at Alloway, which was 
situatedafew yards from the argillaceous fabric above-mentioned. 
My five employers undertook to board me by turns, and to 
make up a certain salary at the end of the year, provided my 
quarterly pajTnents from the different pupils did not amount to 
that sum." 

" My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between six and seven 
years of age, his preceptor about eighteen — Robert and his 
younger brother Gilbert had been grounded a little in English 
before they were put under my care. They both made a rapid 
progress in reading, and a tolerable progress in writing. In 
reading, dividing words into syllables by rule, spelling without 
book, parsing sentence, &c., Robert and Gilbert were generally 
at the upper end of the class, even when ranged with boys by 
far their seniors. The books most commonly used in the school 
were the SpeUing-book, the New Testament, the Bible, Mason's 
Collection of Prose and Verse, and Fisher's English Grammar. 
They committed to memory the hymns and other poems of that 
collection with uncommon facihty. This facility was partly 
owing to the method pursued by their father and me in instruct- 
ing them, which was, to make them thoroughly acquainted with 
the meaning of every word in each sentence that was committed 
to memory. By the bye, this may be easier done, and at an 
earher period, than is generally thought. As soon as they wero 
capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into its natural prose 
order ; sometimes to substitute synonymous expressions for poe- 
tical words, and to supply all the eUipses. These you know are 
the means of knowing that the pupil understands his author. 
These are excellent helps to the arrangement of words in sen- 
tences, as well as to a variety of expression." 

" Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a more lively ima- 
gination, and to be more of the wit, than Robert. I attempted 
to teach them a little church-music. Here they were left far 
behind by all the rest of the school. Robert's ear, in particular, 
was remarkably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long 
before I could get them to distinguish one tune fi-om another. 
Robert's countenance was generally grave, and expressive of a 
serious, contemplative, and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face 
said. Mirth, with thee I mean to live ! .ind certainly, if any 
person who knew the two boys had been asked which of them 
was most likely to court the Muses, he would surely never have 
guessed that Robert had a propensity of that kind." 

" In the year 1767, Mr. Burns quitted his mud edifice, and 
took possession of a farm (Mount OHphant,) of his own improv- 
ing, while in the service of Provost Ferguson. This farm being 
at a considerable distance from the school, the boys could not 
attend regularlv ; and some changes taking place among the 
other supporters of the school, I left it, having continued to 
conduct it for nearly two years and a half." 

" In the year 1772, I was appointed (being one of the fiv« 



BUKNS STUDIES PEu^TClT. 85 

candidates who were examined,) to teach the English school at 
Ayr; and, in 1773, Robert Burns came to board and lodge with 
me, for the purpose of reviaing EngHsh grammar, &c., that he 
might be better quahfied to instruct Lis brothers and sisters at 
home. He was now with me day and night, in school, at all 
meals, and in all my walks. At the end of one week I told him 
that, as he was now pretty much master of tlie parts of speech, 
&c., I should hke to teach him something of French pronuncia- 
tion ; that when he should meet with the name of a French 
town, ship officer, or the like, in the newspapers, he might be 
able to pronounce it something like a French word. Robert 
was glad to hear this proposal, and immediately we attacked the 
French with good courage." 

" Now there was Httle else to be heard but the declension of 
nouns, the conjugation of verbs, &c. When walking together, 
and even at meals, I was constantly teUing him the names of 
diflferent objects, as they presented themselves, in French ; so 
that he was hourly laying in a stock of words, and sometimes 
little phrases. In short, he took such pleasure in learning, and 
I in teaching, that it is difficult to say which of the two was 
most zealous in the business ; and about the end of the second 
week of our study of the French, we began to read a little of 
the Adventures of Telemachus, in Fenelon's own words." 

" But now the plains of Mount Oliphant began to whiten, and 
Robert was summoned to relinquish the pleasing scenes that 
surround the grotto of Calypso, and, armed with a sickle, to seek 
glory by signaHsing himself in the field of Ceres — and so he did; 
for although but about fifteen, I was told he performed the work 
of a man." 

" Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, and consequently 
agreeable companion, at the end of three weeks, one of which was 
spent entirely in the study of English, and the other two chiefly 
in that of French. I did not, however, lose sight of him, but was 
a frequent visitant at liis father's house, when I had my half 
hoUday; and very often went, accompanied with one or two per- 
sons more intelligent than myself, that good William Burnes 
might eiy oy a mental feast. Then the labouring oar was shifted 
to some other hand. The father and the son sat down with us, 
when we enjoyed a conversation, wherein solid reasoning, sen- 
sible remark, and a moderate seasoning of jocularity, were *o 
nicely blended, as to render it palatable to all parties. Robert 
had a hundred questions to ask me about the French, &c. ; and 
the father, who had always rational information in view, had 
still some questions to propose to my more learned friends, upon 
moral or natural philosophy, or some such interesting subject. 
Mrs. Burnes, too, was of the party as much as possible ; 

* But still the house affairs would draw her thence, 
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, 
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear, 
Devour up their discourse' — 

and particularly that of her husband. At all times, and in all 
companies, she listened to him with a more marked attention 



86 LIFE OP BUENS. 

than to anybody else. When under the necessity of being absent 
while he was speaking, she seemed to regret, as a real loss, that 
she had missed what the good man had said. This worthy 
woman, Agnes Brown, had the most thorough esteem for her 
husband of any woman I ever knew. I can by no means wonder 
that she highly esteemed him ; for I myself have always consi- 
dered William Burnes as by far the best of the human race that 
ever I had the pleasure of being acquainted with — and many a 
worthy character I have known. I can cheerfully join with 
Robert in the last line of his epitaph (borrowed from Goldsmith), 
* And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side.* 

"He was an excellent husband, if I may judge from his 
assiduous attention to the ease and comfort of his worthy partner, 
and from her affectionate behaviour to him, as well as her 
unwearied attention to the duties of a mother.'* 

*' He was a tender and aflectionate father ; he took great 
pleasure in leading his children in the path of virtue, not in 
driving them, as some parents do, to the performance of duties 
to which they themselves are averse. He took care to find fault 
but very seldom ; and, therefore, when he did rebuke, he was 
listened to with a kind of reverential awe. A look of disappro- 
bation was felt ; a reproof was severelj' so ; and a strip with the 
tanvzy even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced 
a loud lamentation, and brought forth a flood of tears ." 

" He had the art of gaining the esteem and goodwill of those 
that were labourers under him. I think I never saw him angry 
but twice; the one time it was with the foreman of the band, 
for not reaping the field as he was desired ; and the other time, 
it was with an old man, for using smutty inuendoes and double 
entendres. Were every foul-mouthed old man to receive a rea- 
sonable check in this way, it would be to the advantage of the 
rising generation. As he was at no time overbearing to inferiors, 
he was equally incapable of that passive, pitiful, paltry spirit, 
that induces some people to keep booing and booing in the pre- 
sence of a great man. He always treated superiors with a 
becoming respect ; but he never gave the smallest encourage- 
ment to aristocratical arrogance. But I must not pretend to 
give you a description of all the manly qualities, the rational 
and Christian virtues, of the venerable William Burnes. Time 
would fail me. I shall only add that he carefully practised every 
known duty, and avoided everything that was criminal ; or, in 
the apostle's words, Serein did he exercise himself, in living a 
life void if offence towards God and towards men. Oh, for a 
world of men of such dispositions ! We should then have no 
wars. 1 have often wished, for the good of mankind, that it 
were as customary to honour and perpetuate the memory of 
those who excel in moral rectitude, as it is to extol what are 
called heroic actions ; then would the mausoleum of the friend ot 
my youth overtop and surpass most of the monuments I see in 
Westminster Abbey." 

" Although I cannot do justice to the character of this worthy 
man, yet you will perceive, from these few particulars, what 



BUILTXS STUDIES fitESCK. 17 

Kind trf person had the principal hand in the education ofo^w 
poet. He spoke the English language with more propriety 
(both with respect to diction and pronunciation) than any man 
I ever knew with no greater advantages. This had a very good 
effect on the boj^s, who began to talk, and reason hk^ men, much 
seoner than their neighbours. I do not recollect any of their 
contemporaries, at my httle seminary, who afterwards made any 
great degree as literary characters, except Dr. Tennant, who 
was chaplain to CJolonel Fullarton's regiment, and who is now 
in the East Indies. He is a man of genius and learning ; yet 
affable, and free from pedantry," 

" Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that he had overratec 
Mount Oliphant, and that he could not rear his numerous 
family upon it. After being there some years, he removed to 
Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, I believe, Robert 
wrote most of his poems." 

" But here, sir, you will permit me to pausa I can tell you 
little more relative to our poet. I shall, however, in my next, 
send you a copy of one of his letters to me, about the year 1783. 
I received one since, but it is mislaid. Please to remember me 
in the best manner to my worthy friend, Mr. Adair, when you 
see him, or write to him." 

**Sart Street, JBloomshnr^ Square^ 
London, Feb. 22, 1799." 

As the narrative of Gilbert Bums was written at a time when 
he was ignorant of the existence of the preceding narrative of 
his brother, so this letter of Mr. Murdecn was written without 
his having any knowledge that either of his pupils had been 
employed on the same subject. The three relations serve, 
therefore, not merely to illustrate, but to authenticate, each 
other. Though the information they convey might have been 
presented within a shorter compass, by reducing the whole into 
one unbroken nairative, it is scarcely to be doubted, that the 
inteUigent^ reader will be far more gratified by a sight o^ 
these original documents themselves. 

[The poet mentions in his own narrative his visit in his 
nineteenth summer to Kirkoswald parish, and his mingKng in 
scenes of dissipation there amongst the Carrick smugglers. 
The following additional particulars, respecting this period of 
his life will probably be interesting : they were collected by the 
present editor, but appeared originally in Chambers' JSdinhurgh 
Journah'] 

If Burns bs correct in stating that it was his nineteenth 
summer that he spent in Kirkoswald parish, the date of his 
residence there must be 1777. What seems to have suggested 
his going to Elirkoswald school, was the connection of his mother 
with that parish. She was the daughter of Gilbert Brown, 
farmer, of Craigenton, in this parochial division of Carrick, in 
which she had many friends still livingj particularly a brother, 
Samuel Brown, who resided, in the miscellaneous capacity 
©f 6arm-labourer, fisherman, and dealer in wool, at the farm- 

E 



96 LIFE OF BUSN9. 

house of Ballochneil, abo^e a mile from the village of Kirkos- 
wald. This Brown, though not the farmer or guidman of the 
place, was a person held to be in creditable circumstances in a 
district where the distinction between master and servant was, 
and still is, by no means grea?fe. His wife was the sister of 
Niven, the tenant, and he lived in the " chamber " or better 
portion of the farm-house, but was now a widower. It was 
with Brown that Burns lived during his attendance it Kir- 
koswald school, walking every morning to the village, where the 
little seminary of learning was situated, and returning at night. 

The district into which the young poet of Kyle was thus 
thro^vn, has many features of a remarkable kind. Tliough 
situated on the shore of the Firth of Clyde, where steamers are 
every hour to be seen on their passage between enlightened and 
busy cities, it is to this day the seat of simple and patriarchal 
usages. Its land composed of bleak green uplands, partly cultr- • 
vated and partly pastoral, wa^, at the time alluded to, occupied 
by a generation of primitive small farmers, many of whom, 
while preserving their native simplicity, had superadded to it 
some of the irregular habits arising from a concern in the trade 
of introducing contraband goods cii the Carrick coast. Such 
dealings did not prevent superstition from ilotrrishin^ amongst 
them in a degree of vigour of which no district of Scotland now 
presents any example. The parish has six iniles of sea coast ; 
and the village wh^re the church and school are situated, is in a 
sheltered situation about a couple of miles inland. 

The parish schoolmaster, Hugh Rodger, enjoyed great local 
fame as a teacher of mensuration and geometry, and was much 
employed as a practical land surveyor. On the day when Burns 
enjbered at the school, another youth, a little younger than him- 
self, also entered. This was a native of the neighbouring town 
of May bole, who having there completed a course of classical 
study, was now sent by his father, a respectable shopkeeper, to 
acquire arithmetic and mensuration imder the famed mathema- 
tician of Kirkoswald. It was then the custom, when pupils of 
their age entered at a school, to take the master to a tavern, and 
complete the engagement by treating him to some liquor. 
Burns and the Maybole youth accordingly imited to regale 
Hodger with a potation of ale, at a public-house in the village, 
kept by two gentlewomanly sort of persons named Kennedy — 
Jean and Anne Kennedy — the former of whom was destined to 
be afterwards mamed to immortal verse, under the appellation 
of Kirton Jean^ and whose house, in consideration of some pre- 
tensions to birth or style above the common, was always called 
** the Leddies' House. " From that time. Bums and the 
Maybole youth became intimate friends, insomuch, that during 
this sumi-ier, neither had any companion with whom he was 
more frequently in company than with the other. Bums was 
only at the village during school hours; but when his friend 
Wijlie returned to the paternal dome on Satm-day nights, the 
poet would accompany him, and stay till it was time for both 
to come back to school on Monday morning. Tliere was also an 
interval between the morning and afternoon meetin<;s of the 



HUGH EOGEE, CHE SCHOOLMASTEE. €& 

school, which the two youths used to spend together, lustead 
«f amusing ihemselves with ball or any other sport, like the rest 
of the 'Scholars, they would take a walk by themselves in the 
outsku'ts of the village, and converse on subjects calculated to 
improve their minds. By and bye, they fell upon a .plan of 
holding disputations or arguments on speculative questions, oiie 
taking-one gide, and one the other^ without much regard to their 
respective opinions on the point, whatev-er it might be, the 
whole object being to sharpen their intellects. They asked 
several cf .their companions to oon>e and take a side in these 
debates, but not one would do so ; they only laughed at the 
young philosophers. The matt<3r at length reached the ears of 
the master, v;ho, however skilled in mathematics, possessed but 
a narrow understanding and Httle general knowledge. With 
all the bigotry of the old school, he ccmceived tliat this superero- 
gatory emplo3Tnent of his pupils was a piece of absurdity, and 
he resolved to correct them in it. One day, therefore, when the 
school was fully met, and in the midst of its usual business, he 
went up to the desk where Burns and WilHe where sitting 
opposite to each other, and began to advert in sarcastic terms to 
what he had heard of them. They had become great debaters, 
he understood, and conceived themselves lit to settle affairs of 
importance, which -wiser heads usually let alone. He hoped 
their disputations would not ultimately beconie qisarrels, and 
that they would never think of coming fi'om words to blows ; 
and so forth. The jokes of schoolmasters always succeed among 
the boys, who are too glad to find the awful man in anything 
like good-humour, to question either the moral aim or point of 
his vrit. They, therefore, on this occasion, hailed the m aster '-s 
remarks with hearty peals of laughter. Nettled at this, WiUie 
resolved he would " speak up " to Eodger ; but first he asked 
Burns in a whisper if he would support him, which Burns pro- 
mised to do. He then said that he was sorry to find that Robert 
and he had given offence ; it had not been intended. And indeed 
he had expected that the master would have been rather pleased 
to know of their endeavours to improve their minds. He could 
assm-e him that such impiovement was the sole object they had in 
view. Rodger sneered at the idea of their improving their minds 
by nonsensical discussions,and contemptuously asked what it was 
they disputed about. Willie replied, that generally there was 
a new subject every day ; that he could not recollect all that had 
come under then- attention ; but the question of to-day had been — 
" Whether is a great general or a respectable merchant the most 
valuable member of society? " The dominie lauglied outrage- 
ously at what he called the silliness of such a question, seeing 
there could be no doubt for a moment about it. " Well," said 
Burns, " if you think so, -I will be glad if you take any side you 
please, and allow me to take the other, and let us discuss it 
before the school." Rodger most unwisely assented, and com- 
menced the argument by a flourish in favour of the general. 
Burns answered by a pointed advocacy of the pretensions of the 
merchant, and soon had an evident superiority over his preceptor. 
The Jattei- replied, butwithoi^ suocess. His hand was observed 



40 I-rFE OP BUR^Sv 

to shake; then his 7oice trembled; and he dissolved the hc-Tsae 
in a state of vexation pitiable to behold. In this anecdote who 
can fail to read a prognostication of future eminence to the two 
disputants ? The one became the most illustrious poet of lu» 
country ; and it is not unworthy of being mentioned in the same 
sent-ence, that the other advanced, through a career of successful 
industry in his native town, to the possession of a large estate in 
its neghbourhood, and some share of the honours usually 
reserved in this country for birth and aristocratic connection. 

The coast in the neighbourhood of Burns's residsnca at Bal- 
lochniel presented a range of rustic characters upon whom his 
genius was destined to confer an extraordinary interest. At the 
farm of Shanter, on a slope overlooking the shore, not far from 
Tumberry castle, lived Douglas Graham, a stout hearty speci- 
men of the Carrick farmer, a Httle addicted to smuggling, but 
withal a worthy and upright member of society, and a kind-na- 
tured man. He had a wife named Helen M'Taggart, w^ho was 
addicted to superstitious beliefs and fears. The steading where 
this good couple lived is now no more, for the farm has- been 
divided for the increase of two others in its neghbourhood ; but 
genius has given them a perennial existence in the tale of Tana 
o'Shanter, where their characters are exactly dehneated under 
the respective appellations of Tarn and Kate. =^ * ^ 

At Ballochniel Burns engaged heartily in the sports of leap- 
ing, dancing, wrestling, 'putting (throwing) the stone, and others 
of the like kind. His innate thii-st foe distinction and superi- 
ority was manifested in these as in more important affairs ; but 
though he was possessed of great strength, as well as skill, he 
never could match his young bed-fellow, John Niven. ObHged 
at last to acknowledge himself beat hy this person in bodily war- 
fare, he had recourse for amends to a spiritual mode of conten- 
tion, and would engage young Niven in argmnent upon some 
speculative question, when, of course, he invariably floored his 
antagonist. His satisfaction cai these occasions is said to have 
been extreme. One day, as he was walking slowly along the 
street of the village in a nianner customary to him, with his 
eyes b^t cm the ground, he was naet by the Misses Biggar, the 
daughters of the parish pastor. He would have passed without 
noticing them, if one of the young ladies had not called him by 
his name. She then rallied him on his inattention to the fair 
sex, in preferring to look towards the inanimate ground, instead 
of seizing the opportunity afforded him of indulging in the most 
valuable privilege of man, that of beholding and conversing with 
the ladies. " Madam," said he, " it is a natural and right thing 
for a man to contemplate the ground, from whence l^e wrs takeu, 
and for woman to look upon and observe man, from whom she 
was taken." This was a conceit, but it was the conceit of no 
vulgar boy." 

There is a great fair at Kirkoswald in the beginning of August, 
on the same day, we believe, with a hke fair at Kirkoswald in 
Northumberland, both ])lacas having taken their rise from the 
piety of oii»person,.Oswald, a Saxon king of the Heptarchy, whose 
memory is probably honoured in these observances. During the 



BURNS IN LOWE WITH PEGGl THOMPSOIJ. 4fl 

meek preceding this fair, in the year 1777, Burns made over- 
tures to his May bole friend, Willie, for their getting u,p a dance, 
on the evening of the approaching festival, in one of the public- 
houses of the village, and inviting their sweethearts to it. Willie 
knew little at that tinae of dances or sweethearts ; but he liked 
Burns, and was no enemy to amusement. He therefore consented, 
ftud it was agreed that some other young men should be requested 
to join in the undertaking. The dance took place as designed, 
ti^e requisite music being supplied hy a hh'ed hand, and about a 
dozen couples partsok of the fun. When it was proposed to 
part, the reckoning was called and found to amount to eighteen 
shillings and fourpence. It was then discovered that almost 
every one pi'esent had looked to his neighbours for the means ot 
settling this claim. Burns, the originator of the scheme, was 
in the poetical cendition of not being master of a single penny. 
The rest were in a like ccndition, all except one, whose resources 
amounted te a great, and Maybole Willie, who possessed about 
half-a-crown. The last individual, who alone boasted any 
worldly wisd<3m or experience, took it upon him to extricate the 
company from its difficulties. By virtue of a candid and sensi- 
ble narration to the landlord, he induced that individual to take 
what they had and give credit for the remainder. The payment 
of the debt is not tlte worst part of the story. Seeing no chance 
from begging or borrowing, Willie resolved to gain it, if possible, 
by merchandise. Observing that stationerj articles for the 
school w-ere procured at Kirkoswald with difficulty, he supplied 
himself with a stock from his father's warehouse at Maypole, 
and for some weeks sold pens and paper to his companions with 
so much advantage, that at length he reahsed a sufficient amount 
of profit to liquidate the expense of the dance. Burns and he 
then went in triumph to the inn, and not only settled the claim 
to the last penny, but gave the kind-hearted host a bowl of 
thanks into the bargain. Willie, however, took care from that 
time forth to engage in no schemes for country dances without 
looking caretuUj^ to the prohahle state of the pockets of his fellow 
adventurers. 

Burns, according to his own account, concluded his residence 
at KirkoswaJjd in a blaze of passion for a faiyjilette who Hved 
next door to the school. At this time, owing to the destruction 
of the proper school of Kirkoswald, a ohamber at the end of the 
old church, the business of paiochial instruction was conducted 
in an apartment on the ground floor of a house in the main 
street of the village, opposite the churchyard. From behind the 
house, as from behind each of its neighbours in the same row, 
a small strip of kail-yard {Anglice, kichen-garden) runs bacK 
about fifty yards, along a rapidly-ascending slope. When Burns 
went into the particular patch behind the school to take the sun's 
altitude, he had only to look over a low enclosure to see the simi- 
lar patch connected with the next house. Here, it seems, Peggy 
Thompson, the daughter of the rustic occupant of that house, 
was walking at the time, though more probably engaged in the 
business of cutting a cabbage for the family dinner, than imitat- 
ing the flower-gathering Proserpine, or her prototype Eve. Hence 

e3 



4Q LirB OT BUENS, 

the bewildering passion of the poet. Peggy was the theme c4 
his " Song composed in August," beginning — 

" Kow wcstlin winds and slaughtering guns 
Bring Autumn's pleasant weather." 

She afterwards became Mrs. Neilson, and lived to a gocxl age in 
the town of A}t, where her children still reside. 

At his departure from Kirkoswald, he engaged his Ma^'bole 
friend and some other lads to keep up a correspondence with him. 
His object in doing so, as we may gather from his own narrative, 
was to improve himself in composition. " I carried this whim 
60 far," says he, " that, though I had not three farthings' worth 
of business iu the world, yet almost every post brought me as 
many letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of day-book 
and ledger." To Willie, in particular, he wrote often, and in 
the most friendly and confidential terms. When that individual 
was commencing business in his native tow^n, the poet addressed 
Uim a poetical epistle of appropriate advice, headed with the 
^'ell-known lines from Blairs Grave, beginning — 

" Priendship ! mysterious cement of the soul, 
Sweetener of life and solder of society." 

This correspondence continued till the period of the pubhcation 
of the poems, when Burns wrote to request his fi'iend's good 
offices in increasing his list of subscribers. The young man was 
then possessed of little influence, but what little he had he 
exerted with all the zeal of friendship, and with considerable 
success. A considerable number of copies was accordingly 
transmitted in proper time to his care, and soon after the poet 
came to Maybole to receive the money. His h'iend collected a 
few choice spirits to meet him at the King's Arms Inn, and they 
spent a happy night together. Burns was on this occasion par- 
ticularly elated, for Wilhe, in the midst of their conviviality, 
handed over to him seven pounds, being the first considerable 
sum of money the poor bard had ever possessed. In the pride 
of his heart, next morning, he determined that he should not 
walk home, and accordingly he hired fi'om his host a certain 
poor hack mare, well known along the whole road fi*om Glas- 
gow to Portpatrick — in all probabihty the first hired conveyance 
that Poet Burns had ever enjoyed, for even his subsequent jour- 
ney to Edinburgh, auspicious as were the prospects under which 
it was undertaken, was performed on foot. Willie and a few 
other youths who had been in his company on the precetling 
night, walked out of town before him, for the purpose of taking 
leave at a particular spot ; and before he came up they had pre- 
pared a few mock-heroic verses in which to express their 
farewell. When Bums rode up, accordingly, they saluted him 
in this formal manner, a little to his surprise. He thanked 
them, however, and instantly added, " What need of all thia 
tine parade of verse ? It vould have been quite enough if you 
had said — 



BUEKS TAKING LEA.VE OF HIS C0MPA.HI0N8, 43 

Here comes Burns, 

On Rosinante j 
She's d poor. 

But he's d canty." 

The campany then allowed Burns to go on his way rejoicing. 

Under the humble roof of his parents it appears that our poet 
had great advantages ; but his opportunities of information &t 
school were more limited as to time than they usually are among 
his countrymen in his condition of life ; and the acquisitions 
which he made, ^nd the poetical talent which he exerted, under 
the pressure of early and incessant toil, and of inferior and per- 
haps scanty nutriment, testify at once the extraordinary force 
and activity of his mind. In his frame of body he rose nearly to 
five feet ten inches, and assumed the proportions that indicate 
agility as well as strength. In the various labours of the farm 
he excelled all his competitors. Gilbert Burns declares, that 
in mowing, the exercise that tries all the muscles most severely, 
Robert was the only man that, at the end of a sumrner's day, 
he was ever obliged to acknowledge as his master. But though 
our poet gave the powers of his body to the labours ojthe farm, 
he refused to bestow on them his thoughts or his care. While 
the ploughshare under his guidance passed through the sward, 
or the grass fell under the sweep of his scythe, he was humming 
the songs of his countrj', musing on the deeds of ancient valour, 
or wrapt in the illusion of fancy, as her enchantments rose on 
his view. Happily the Sunday is yet a sabbath, on which man 
and beast rest from their labours. On this day, therefore, Burns 
could indulge in a fi'ee intercourse with the charms of nature. 
It was his delight to wander alone on the banks of the A}t, 
whose stream is now immortal, and to listen to the song of the 
blackbird at the close of the summer's day. But still greater 
was his pleasure, as he himself informs us, in walking on the 
sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy winter day, and hearing the 
storm rave among the trees ; and more elevated still his dehght, 
to ascend some eminence during the agitations of nature ; to 
stride along its summit, while the lightning flashed around nim ; 
and amidst the bowlings of the tempest, to apostrophise the 
spirit of the storm. Such situations he declares most favourable 
to devotion: — " Rapt in enthusiasm, I seem to ascend towards 
Him who walks on the wings of the winds /" If other proofs 
were wanting of the character of his genius, this might deter- 
mine it. The heart of the poet is peculiarly awake to every 
impression of beauty and sublimity ; but with the higher order 
of poets the beautiful is less attractive than the sublime. 

The gaiety of many of Burns's writings, and the lively and 
even cheerful colouring with which he has portrayed his own 
character, may lead some persons to suppose, that the melan- 
choly which hung over nim towards the end of his ^ays was not 
an original part of his constitution. It is not to be doubted, 
indeed, that this melancholy acquired a darker hue in the pro- 
gress of his hfe ; but, independent of his own and of his bro- 
ther's testimony, evidence is to be found among his papers, 



4a life of BUENa. 

that he was subject very early to those depressions of mind, 
which are, perhaps, not wholly separable from the sensibility 
of genius, but which in him arose to an uncommon degree. The 
following letter, addressed to his father, will serve as a proof of 
this observation. It was written at the time when he was 
learning the business of a flax-di*esser, and is dated — 

Irvine, Dec, 27, 1781. 

"HoKorEED SiE. — 1 have purposely delayed writing, in 
the hope that 1 should have the pleasure of seeing you on New- 
year's day ; but work comes so hard upon us, that I do not 
ihoose to be absent on that account, as well as for some other 
little reasons which I shall tell tell you at meeting. My health 
is nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a 
little sounder ; and on the whole I am rather better than other- 
wise, though I mend by very slow degrees. The weakness of 
my nerves has so debihtated my mind, that I dare neither 
review past events, nor look forward into futurity ; for the least 
anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most unhappy 
effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an 
hour or tjvo my spirits are a little lightened, I glimmer a little 
into futurity ; but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable 
employment, is looking backwards and forwards in a moral and 
religious way. I am quite transported at the thought, that ere 
long, very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains 
and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary life, for I 
assure you 1 am heartily tired of it ; and if I do not very much 
deceive myself, I could contentedly and gladl}^ resign it. 

* The soul, uneasy and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' 

" It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, 
and 17th verses of the 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any 
ten times as many verses n\ the whole Bible, and would not 
exchange the noble enthusiasm with which they inspire me, for 
all that this world has to offer. As for this world, I despair of 
ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of 
the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall never again be capa- 
ble of entering into such scenes. Indeed, I am altogether uncon- 
cerned at the thoughts of this hfe. I forsee that poverty and ob- 
scurity probably await me : I am in some measure prepared, and 
daily preparing, to meet them. I have but just time and paper 
to return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and 
piety you have given me, which were too much neglected at the 
time of giving them, but which, I hope, have been remembered 
ere it is yet too late. Present my dutitul respects to my mother, 
and my comphments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir ; and with wishing 
you a merry New-year's day, I shall conclude. 

» I am, honourefl sir, your dutiful son, 

Robert Ruens. 

^ ^ P. S. — My meal is nearly out ; but I am going to borrow 
till I get more." 



BUENS'S DEBATI!TG CLUB. 45 

This letter, written several j^ears before tlie publication of his 
poems, when his name was as obscure as his condition was 
humble, displays the philosophic melancholy which so generally 
forms the poetical temperament, and that buoyant and ambitious 
spirit, which indicates a mind conscious of its strength. At 
Irvine, Bums at this time possessed a dingle room for his lodg- 
ing, and rented perhaps at the rate of a shilhng a week. He 
passed his days in constant labour as a flax-dresser, and his food 
consisted chiefly of oatmeal, sent to him from his father's 
family. The store of this humble though wholesome nutriment 
it appears, was nearly exhausted, and he was about to borrow 
till he should obtain a supply. Yet even in this situation his 
active imagination had formed to itself pictures of eminence and 
distinction. His despair of making a figure in the world shews 
how ardently he wished for honourable fame ; and his contempt 
of life, founded on this despair, is the genuine expression of a 
youthful and generous mind. In such a state of reflection and of 
suffering, the imagination of Burns naturally passed the dark 
boundaries of our earthly horizon, and rested on those beautiful 
representations of a better v/orld, where there is neither thirst, 
nor hunger, nor sorrow ; and where happiness shall be in pro- 
portion to the capacity of happiness. 

Such a disposition is far from being at variance with social 
enjojTiients. Those who have studied the affinities of mind 
know that a melancholy of this description, after a while seeks 
relief in the endearments of society, and that it has no distant 
connection with the flow of cheerfulness, or even the extravagance 
of mirth. It was a few days after the writing of this letter that 
our poet, " in giving a welcome carousal to the new year with 
his gay companions," suff'ered his flax to catch fire, and his 
shop to be consumed to ashes. 

The energy of Burns's mind was not exhausted by his daily 
labours, the effusions of his muse, his social pleasures, or his 
soHtary meditations. Some time previous to his engagement as 
a flax-dresser, having heard that a debating club had been estab- 
lished in AjT, he resolved to try how such a meeting would 
succeed in the village of Tarbolton. About the end of the year 
1780, our poet, his brother, and five other young peasants of 
the nighbourhood, formed themselves into a societj^ of this sort, 
thh declared objects of which were to relax themselves after toil, 
prom.ote sociality and friendship, and improve the mind. The 
laws and regulations were furnished by Burns. The members 
were to meet after che labours of the day were over, once a week, 
in a small public-house in the village, where each should offer 
his opinion on a given question or subject, supporting it by such 
arguments as he thought proper. The debate was to be con- 
ducted with order and decorum ; and after it was finished, the 
members were to choose a subject for discussion at the ensuing 
meeting. The sum expended by each was not to exceed three- 
pence ; and, with the humble potation that this could procure, 
they were to toast their mistrssses, and to cultivate fiiendship 
with each other. This society continued its meetings regularly 
for some time , and in the Autumn of 1782, wishing to preserve 



46 LIFE OP BUENS. 

some account of their proceedings, they purchased a book, into 
which their laws and regulations were copied, with a preamble, 
containing a short history of their transactions down to that 
period. This curious document, which is evidently the work of 
our poet, has been discovered, and it deserves a place in his 
memoirs. 

" HI8T0ET OP THE RISE, PEOCEEDINGS, AND EBGULi-TIONS 
OF THE BACHELOES' CLUB. 

* Of birth or blood we do not boast, 
Nor gentry does our club afford; 

But ploughmen and mechanics we 
In Nature's simple dress record.* 

" As the great end of human society is to become wiser and 
better,^his ought, therefore, to be the principal view of every 
man in every station of life. But as experience has taught us, 
that such studies as inform the head and mend the heart, when 
long continued, are apt to exhaust the faculties of the mind, it 
has been found proper to relieve and unbend the mind by some 
emplojTnent or another, that may be agreeable enough to keep 
its powers in exercise, but at the same time not so serious as to 
exhaust them. But superadded to this, by far the greater part 
of mankind are under the necessity oj earning the sustenance 
of human life by the labour of their bodies, whereby, not only 
the faculties of mind, but the nerves and sinews of the body, 
are so fatigued, that it is absolutely necessary to have recourse 
to some amusement or diversion, to relieve the wearied man, 
worn down with the necessary labours of life. 

" As the best of things, however, have been perverted to the 
worst of purposes, so, under the pretence of amusement and 
diversion, men have plimged into all the madness of riot and 
dissipation ; and, instead of attending to the grand design ot 
human life, they have begun with extravagance and foil}', and 
ended with guilt and wretchedness. Impressed with these 
considerations, we, the following lads in the parish of Tarbolton, 
viz. Hugh Reid, Robert Bums, Gilbert Burns, Alexander Brown, 
Walter Mitchell, Thomas Wright, and WilUam M' Gavin, 
resolved, for our mutual entertainment, to unite ourselves into a 
club, or society, under such rules and regulations, that while we 
should forget our cares and labours in mirth and diversion, we 
might not transgress the bounds of innocence and decorum ; and 
after agreeing on these, and some other regulations, we held our 
first meeting at Tarbolton, in the house of John Richard, upon 
the evening of the 11th November, 1780, commonly called 
Hallowe'en, and after choosing Robert Burns president for the 
night, we proceeded to debate on this question : * Suppose a 
voumg man, bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in 
his power to marry either of two women, the one a girl of large 
fortune, but neither handsome in person nor agreeable in con- 
vecsation, but who can manage the household affairs of a farm 
well enough ; the other of them a girl every way agreeable in 
person, conversation, and behaviour, but without any fortune ; 
which of them shall he choose ? Finding ourselves very happy 



BUENSS DEBATING CLUB. ' Vj 

in our society, we resolved to continue to meet once a month in 
the same house, in the way and manner proposed, and shortly 
thereafter we chose Robert Ritchie for another member* In 
May, 1781, we brought in David Sillar, and in June, Adam 
Jamaison, as members. About the beginning of the year 1782, 
we admitted Matthew Patterson and John Orr, and in June 
following we chose James Patterson as a proper brother for such 
H. society. The club being thus increased, we resolved to meet 
at Tarbolton on the race night, the July following, and have a 
dance in honour of our society. Accordingly, we (hd meet, each 
one with a partner, and spent the evening in such innocence and 
merriment, such cheerfulness and good humour, that every 
brother will long remember it with pleasure and delight." To 
this preamble are subjoined the rules and regulations. 

The philosophical mind will dwell with interest and q^asure 
on an institution that combined so skilfully the means of mstruc- 
tion and happiness ; and if grandeur looks down with a smile on 
these simple annals, let us trust that it will be a smile of bene- 
volence and approbation. It is with regret that the sequel of 
the history of the Bachelors' Club of Tarbolton must be told. 
It survived several years after our poet removed fi'om AjTshire, 
but no longer sustained by his talents, or cemented by his social 
aflections, its meetings lost much of their attraction ; and at 
length, in an evil hour, dissension arising amongst its members, 
the institution was given up, and the records committed to the 
flames. Happily, the preamble and the regulations were spared ; 
and as matter ofinstruction and of example, they are transmitted 
to posterity. 

After the family of our bard removed from Tarbolton to the 
neighbourhood of MauchHne, he and his brother were requested 
to assist in forming a similar institution there. The regulations 
of the club at Mauchline were nearly the same as those of the 
club at Tarbolton ; but one laudable alteration was made. The 
fines for non-attendance had at Tarbolton been spent in enlarg- 
ing their scanty potations : at Mauchline it was fixed that the 
money so arising should be set apart for the purchase of books, 
and the fii'st work procured in this manner was the Mirror, the 
separate numbers of which were at that time recently collected 
and published in volumes. After it followed a number of other 
works, chiefly of the same nature, and among these the Lounger. 
The society of Mauchline still (1800) subsists, and appeared in 
the list of subscribers to the first edition of the works of its cele- 
brated associate. 

The members of these two societies were originally all young 
men from the country, and chiefly sons of farmers — a descrip- 
tion of persons, in the opinion of our poet, more agreeable in 
their manners, more virtuous in their conduct, and more suscep- 
tible of improvement, than the self-sufficient mechanics of 
country towns. With deference to the Conversation Society of 
Mauchline, it may be doubted, whether the books which they 
purchased were of a kind best adapted to promote the interest 
and happiness of persons in this situation of life. The Mirror 
and the Lounger, though works of great merit, may be said, on 



4B LIFE OF BUE\8. 

ft general view of their contents, to be less calculated to increase 
the knowledge than to refine the taste of'those who read them ; 
and to this last object their morality itself, which is, however, 
always perfectly pure, may be considered as subordinate. As 
works of taste, they deserve great praise. They are, indeed, 
refined to a high degree of delicacy ; and to this circumstance it 
is perhaps owing, that they exhibit little or nothing of the 
peculiar manners of the age or country in which they were pro- 
duced. But delicacy of taste, though the source of many 
pleasures, is not wdthout some disadvantages, and to render it 
desirable, the possessor should, perhaps, in all cases, be raised 
above the necessity of bodily labour, unless, indeed, we should 
include \mder this term the exercise of the imitative arts, over 
which taste immediately presides. Delicacy of taste may be a 
blessing to him who has the disposal of his own time, and who 
can cnoose what book he shall read, of what diversion he shall 
partake, and what company he shall keep. To men so situated, 
the cultivation of taste aflbrds a grateful occupation in itself, 
and opens a path to many other gratifications. To men of 
genius, in the possession of opulence and leisure, the cultivation 
of the taste may be said to be essential : since it affords employ- 
ment to those faculties, which without employment, would 
destroy the happiness of the possessor, and corrects that morbid 
sensibility, or, to use the expressions of Mr. Hume, that delicacy 
of passion, which is the bane of the temperament of genius. 
Happy had it been for our bard, after he emerged from the condi- 
tion of a peasant, had the dcHcacy of his taste equalled the 
sensibility of his passions, regulating all the efmsions of his 
muse, and presiding over all his social enjoyments. But to the 
thousands who share the original condition of Burns, and who 
are doomed to pass their lives in the station in which they were 
born, delicacy of taste, were it even of easy attainment, would, 
if not a positive evil, be at least a doubtful blessing. Delicacy 
of taste may make many necessary labours irksome or disgusting; 
and should it render the cultivator of the soil unhappy in his 
situation, it presents no means by which that situation may be 
improved. Taste and literature, which diffuse so many charms 
throughout society, which sometimes secm*e to their votaries 
distinction while living, and which still more frequently obtain 
for them posthumous fame, seldom procure opulence, or even 
independence, when cultivated with the utmost attention, and 
can scarcely he pursued with advantage by the peasant in the 
short intervals of leisure which his occupations allow. Those 
who raise themselves from the condition of daily labour, are 
usually men who excel in the practice of some useful art, or 
who join habits of industry and sobriety to an acquaintance 
with some of the more common branches of knowledge. The 
penmanship of Butterworth, and the arithmetic of Cocker, may 
be studied by men in the humblest walks of life ; and they will 
assist the peasant more in the pursuit of independence than the 
study of Homer or of Shakespeare, though he could comprehend 
and even imitate the beauties of those immortal bards. 
These observations are not offered without some portion of 



THE PECULIi-B TASTES OF BUEITS. 49 

doubt and hesitation. The subject has many relations, and 
would justify an ample discussion. It may be observed, on the 
other hand, that the first step to improvement is, to awaken the 
desire of improvement, and that this will be most effectually 
done by such reading as interests the heart and excites the ima- 
gination. The greater part of the sacred writings themselves, 
which in Scotland are more especially the manual of the poor, 
come under this description. It may be further observed, that 
every human being is the proper judge of his own happiness, 
and, within the path of innocence, ought to be permitted to 
pursue it. Since it is the taste of the Scottish peasantry to give 
a preference to works of taste and of fancy, it may be presumed 
they find a superior gratification in the perusal of such works ; 
and it may be added, that it is of more consequence they should 
be made happy in their original condition, than furnished with 
the means, or with the desire, of rising above it. Such con- 
siderations are, doubtless, of much weight; nevertheless, the 
previous reflections may deserve to be examined, and here we 
shall leave the subject. 

Though the records of the society at Tarbolton are lost, and 
those of the society at Mauchline have not been transmitted, yet 
we may safely affirm, that our poet was a distinguished mem- 
ber of both these associations, which were well calculated to 
excite and to develope the powers of his mind. From seven to 
twelve persons constituted the society of Tarbolton, and such a 
number is best suited to the purposes of information. Where 
this is the object of these societies, the number should be such, 
that each person may have an opportunity of imparting his 
sentiments, as well as of receiving those of others ; and the 
powers of private conversation are to be employed, not those of 
pubHc debate. A limited societj^ of this kind, where the subject 
of conversation is fixed beforehand, so that each member may 
revolve it previously in his mind, is perhaps one of the happiest 
contrivances hitherto discovered for shortening the acquisition 
of knowledge, and hastening the evolution of talents. Such an 
association requires, indeed, somewhat more of regulation than 
the rules of politeness, established in common conversation, or 
rather, perhaps, it requires that the rules of poHteness, which in 
animated conversation are liable to perpetual violation, should 
be vigorously enforced. The order of speech estabhshed in the 
club at Tarbolton appears to have been more regular than was 
required in so small a society ; where all that is necessary seems 
to be the fixing on a member to whom every speaker shall address 
himself, and who shall in return secure the speaker from inter- 
ruption. Conversation, which among men whom intimacy and 
friendship have relieved from reserve and restraint, is Uable, 
when left to itself, to so many inequaUties, and which, as it 
becomes rapid, so often diverges into separate and collateral 
branches, in which it is dissipated and lost, being kept within its 
channel by a simple limitation of this kind, which practice ren- 
ders easy and familiar, flows along in one full stream, and 
becomes smoother, and clearer, and deeper, as it flows. It may 
also be observed, that in this way the acquisition of knowledge 
F 4 



60 LIFE OF BUR5S. 

becomes more pleasant and more easy, from the gradual improve- 
ment of the faculty employed to convey it. Though some 
attention has been paid to the eloquence of the senate and the 
bar, which in this, as in all other fi*ee governments, is productive 
of so much influence to the few who excel in it yet little regard 
has been paid to the humbler exercise of speech in private con- 
versation — an art that is of consequence to every description :f 
persons under every fonn of government, and on which eloquence 
of every kind ought perhaps to be founded. 

The first requisite of every kind of elocution, a distinct 
utterance, is the ofispring of much time and of long practice. 
Children are always defective in clear articulation, and so are 
young people, though in a less degree. "What is called slurring 
a speech, prevails with some persons through life, especially in 
those who are taciturn. Articulation does not seem to reach its 
utmost degree of distinctness in men before the age of twenty, 
or upwards ; in women it reaches this point somewhat earher. 
Female occupations require much use of speech, because their 
duties are in detail. Besides their occupations being generally 
sedentary, the respiration is left at liberty. Their nerves being 
more dehcate, their sensi])ility as well as fancy is more lively ; 
the natural consequence of which is, a more frequent utterance 
of thought, a greater fluency of speech, and a distinct articula* 
tion at an earlier age. But in men who have not mingled early 
and familiarly with the world, though rich perhaps in knowledge, 
and clear in apprehension, it is often painful to observe the 
difficulty with which their ideas are communicated by speech, 
through the want of those habits that connect thoughts, words, 
and sounds together ; which, when established, seem as if they 
had arisen spontaneously, but which, in truth, are the result of 
long and painful practice ; and when analysed, exhibit the phe- 
nomena of most curious and complicated association. 

Societies, then, such as we have been describing, while they 
may be said to put each member in possession of the knowledge 
of all the rest, improve the powers of utterance ; and by the 
collision of opinion, excite the faculties of reason and reflection. 
To those who wish to improve their minds in such intervals of 
labour as the condition of a peasant allows, this method of 
abbreviating instruction, may, under proper regulations, be 
highly useful. To the student, whose opinions, springing out 
of soHtary observation and meditation, are seldom in the first 
instance correct, and which have, notwithstanding, while con- 
fined to himself, an increasing tendency to assume in his own eye 
the character o^ demonstrations, an association of this kind, 
where they may be examined as they arise, is of the utmost 
importance ; since it may prevent those illusions of imagination, 
by which genius being bewildered, science is often debased,, and 
error propagated through successive generations. And to men 
who having cultivated letters, or general science, in the course 
of their education, are engaged in the active occupations of life, 
and no longer able to devote to study or to books the time 
requisite for improving or preserving their acquisitions, associa- 
tions of this kind, where the mind mav unbend from its usual 



JEAN AEHOUE. * 

cares in discussions of literature or science, afford the most 
pleasing, the most useful, and the most rational of gratifi- 
cations. 

Whether in the huaable societies of which he was a member, 
Burns acquired much direct information, may perhaps be ques- 
tioned. It cannot, however, be doubted, that by collision, the 
faculties of his mind would be excited; that by practice his 
habits of enimciation would be established ; and thus we have 
some explanation of that early command of words and of 
expression which enabled him to pour forth his thoughts in 
language not unworthy of his genius, and which, of all nis 
endowments, seemed, on his appearance in Edinburgh, the 
most extraordinary. For associations of a literary nature, our 
poet acquired a considerable relish ; and happy had it been for 
him, after he emerged from the condition of a peasant, if fortune 
had permitted him to enjoy them in the degree of which he was 
capable, so as to have fortified his principles of virtue by the 
purification of his taste ; and given to the energies of his mind 
habits of exertion that might have excluded other associations, 
in which it must be acknowledged they were too often wasted, 
as well as debased. 

[The allusions in Burns's letter, and that of his brother, to his 
connection with Jean Armoiu*, afibrd but a vague account of 
that affair ; and it seems necessary that some farther and clearer 
particulars should be given now.] 

John Blane reports the following interesting circumstances 
respecting the attachment of the poet to Miss Armour : — There 
was a singing-scheol at Mauchline, which Blane attended. 
Jean Armour was also a pupil, and he soon l)ecame aware of 
her talents as a vocalist. He even contracted a kind of attach- 
ment to this young woman, though only such as a country lad 
of his degree might entertain for the daughter of a substantial 
country mason. One night, there was a rocking at Mossgiel, 
where a lad named Ralph Sillar sang a number of songs in what 
was considered a superior style. When Burns and Blane were 
retired to their usual sleeping place in the stable-loft, the former 
asked the latter what he thought of Sillar's singing, to which 
Blane answered that the lad thought so much of it himself, and 
had so many airs about it, that there was no occasion for others 
expressing a favourable opinion — yet, he added, " I would not 
give Jean Annour for a score of him." " You are always talk- 
ing of this Jean Armour," said Burns ; " I wish you could 
contrive to bring me to see her." Blane readily consented to 
do so, and next evening, after the plough was loosed, the two 
proceeded to Mauchline for that purpose. Burns went into a 
public-house, and Blane went into the singing-school, which 
chanced to be kept in the floor above. When the school was 
dismissing, Blane asked Jean Armour if she would come to see 
Robert Burns, who was below and anxious to speak to her. 
Having heard of his poetical talents, she said she would Uke 
much to see him, but was afraid to go without a female com- 
panion. This difficulty being overcome by the frankness of a 
Miss Morton — ^the Miss Morton of the Six Mauchhne Belles — 



52 IIFE OF BUKN3. 

Jean went down to tlie room where Burns was sitting. " From 
that time," Blaue adds very naivel}^, " I had little of the com- 
pany of Jean Armour.'* 

Here for the present ends the story of Blane. The results of 
Burns's acquaintance with Jean have been already in part 
detailed. When her pregnancy could be no longer concealed, 
the poet, under the influence of honourable feeling, gave her a 
written paper, in which he acknowledged his being her husband 
— a document sufficient to constitute a marriage in Scotland, 
if nc^- in the eye of decencj^, at least in Hiat of law. But her 
father, from a dislike to Burns, whose theological satires had 
greatly shocked him, and from hopelessness of his being able 
to support her as a husband, insisted that she should destroy 
this paper, and remain as an unmarried woman. 

Some violent scenes ensued. The parents were enraged at the 
imprudence of their daughter, and at Burns. The daughter, 
trembhng beneath their indignation, could ill resist the com- 
mand to forget and abandon her lover. He, in his turn, was 
filled with the extremest anguish when informed that she had 
given him up. Another event occurred to add to the torments 
of the unhappy poet. Jean, to avoid the immediate pressure of 
her father's displeasure, went, about the month of May, (1786,) 
to Paisley, and took refuge with a relation of her mother, one 
Andrew Purdie, a wright. There was at Paisley a certain 
Robert Wilson, a good-looking j^oung weaver, a native of Mauch- 
line, and who was realising wages to the amount of three 
pounds a- week by his then flourisliing profession. Jean Armour 
had danced with this " gallant weaver " at the Mauchline danc- 
ing-school balls, and, besides her relative Purdie, she knew no 
other person in Paisley. Being in much need of a small supply 
of money, she found it necessary to apply to Mr. Wilson, who 
received her kindly, although he did not conceal that he had a 
suspicion of the reason of her visit to Paisley. When the reader 
is reminded that village hfe is not the sphere in which high- 
wrought and romantic feelings are most apt to flourish, he will 
be prepared in some measure to learn that Robert Wilson not 
only relieved the necessities of the fair applicant, but formed the 
wish to possess himself of her hand. He called for her several 
times at Purdie's, and informed her, that if she should not 
become the wife of Burns, he would engage himself to none 
while she remained unmarried. Mrs. Burns long after assured 
a female friend that she never gave the least encouragement to 
Wilson : but, nevertheless, his visits occasioned some gossip, 
which soon found its way to MauchUne, and entered the soul of 
the poet like a demoniac possession. He now seems to have 
regarded her as lost to bim for ever, and that not purely through 
the objections of her relations, but by her own cruel and perjured 
desertion of one whom she had acknowledged as her husband. 
It requires these particulars, little as there may be of pleasing 
about them, to make us fully understand much of what Burns 
wrote at this time, both in verse and prose. Long afterwards, 
he became convinced that Jean, by no part of her conduct with 
respcet to Wilson, had given him j\ist cause for jealousy it is 






JEAN ABMOXJB. 53 

not improbable that he learned in time to make it the subject of 
Bport, and wrote the song, " Where Cart rins rowing to the 
sea/' in jocular allusion to it. But for months — and it is dis- 
tressing to think that these were the months during which he 
was putting his matchless poems for the first time to press — he 
conceived himself the victim of a faithless woman, and life was 
to him, as he himself describes it, — 



• " a weary dream, 



The dream of ane that never wauks." 

In a letter, dated June 12, 1786, he says, " Poor ill-advised 
ungrateful Armour, came home on Friday last. You have heard 
all the particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is. What 
she thinks of her conduct now, I don't know ; one thing I do 
know, she has made me completely miserable. Never man 
lovedj or rather adored, a woman more than I did her ; and, to 
confess a truth, between you and me, I do love her still to dis- 
traction, after all, though I won't tell her so if I were to see her, 
which I don't want to do. * * May Almighty God forgive 
her ingratitude and perjury to me, as I from my very soul 
forgive her." On the 9th of July he writes — "I have waited 
on Armour since her return home, not fi'om the least view of 
reconciliation, but merely to ask for her health, and — to you 1 
will confess it — from a fooHsh hankering fondness — very ill 
placed indeed. The mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean 
show the penitence that might have been expected. However, 
the priest, I am informed, will give me a certificate as a single 
man, if I comply with the rules of the church, which for that 
very reason I intend to do. I am going to put on sackcloth and 
ashes this day. I am indulged so far as to appear in my own 
seat. Fecccwiy pater, miserere mei." 

In a letter of July 17, to Mr. David Brice, of Glasgow, the 
poet thus continues his story : — I have already appeared pub- 
licly in church, and was indulged in the hberty of standing in 
my own seat. Jean and her friends insisted much that she 
should stand along with me in the kirk, but the minister would 
not allow it, which bred a great trouble, I assure you, and I am 
blamed as the cause of it, though I am sm'e I am innocent ; but 
I am very much pleased for all that, not to have had her com- 
pany." And again, July 30 — , " Armour has got- a warrant to 
throw me in jail till I find security for an enormous sum. This 
they keep an entire secret, but I got it by a channel they little 
dream of; and I am wandering from one friend's house to 
another, and, like a true son of the gospel, * have nowhere to 
lay my head.' I know you will pour an execration on her head, 
but spare the poor iU-advised girl, for my sake ; though may 
all the furies that rend the injured, enraged lover's bosom, 
await her mother until her latest hour ! I write in a moment 
of rage, reflecting on my miserable situation — exiled, abandoned, 
forlorn." 

In this dark period, or immcdiatel}' before it, (July 22,) the 
poet signed an instrument, in anticipation of his immediately 
leaving the kingdom, by which he devised aU property of what- 



54 UrE OF BURNS. 

ever kind he might leave behind, including the cop>Tight of his 
poems, to his brotlier Gilbert, in consideration of the latter 
having undertaken to support his daughter Elizabeth, the issue 
of " EUzabeth Paton in Largieside." Intimation of thismstru- 
ment was pubhcly made at the Cross of Ayr, two days alter, by 
William Chalmers, writer. If he had been upon better terms 
with the Armours, it seems unhkely that he would have thus 
devised his property without a respect for the claims of his 
offspring by Jean. 

After this we hear no more of the legal severities of Mr. 
Armour — the object of which was, not to abridge the liberty of 
the unfortunate Burns, but to drive him away from the country, 
so as to leave Jean more effectually disengaged. The Poems 
now appeared, and probably had some effect in allajdng the hos- 
tility of the old man towards their author. It would, at least, 
appear that, at the time of Jean's accouchement, September 3rd, 
the " skulking " had ceased, and the parents of the young woman 
were not so cruel as to forbid his seeing her. We now resume 
the story of John Plane. 

At this time Plane had removed from Mossgiel to Mauchline, 
and become servant to Mr. Gavin Hamilton ; but Burns still 
remembered their old acquaintance. When, in consequence of 
information sent by the Armours as to Jean's situation, the 
poet came from Mossgiel to visit her, he called in passing at 
Mr. Hamilton's, and asked John to accompany him to the house. 
Plane went with him to Mr. Armour's, where, according to his 
recollection, the bard was received with all desirable civilit3\ 
Jean held up a pretty female infant to Pm-ns, who took it 
affectionately in his arms, and, after keeping it a little while, 
returned it to the mother, asking the blessing of God Almighty 
upon her and her infant. He was tunaing away to converse 
with the other people in the room, when Jean said archly, " Put 
this is not all — here is another baby," and handed him a male 
child, which had been born at the same time. He was greatly 
surprised, but took that child too for a little time into his arms, 
and repeated his blessing upon it. (This child was afterwards 
named Robert, and still lives : the girl was named Jean, but 
only lived fourteen months.) The mood of the melancholy poet 
then changed to the mirthful, and the scene was concluded by his 
giving the ailing lady a hearty caress, and rallying her on this 
promising beginning of her history as a mother. 

It would appear, from the words used by the poet on this 
occasion, that he was not without hope of yet making good his 
matrimonial aUiance with Jean. This is rendered the more 
likely by the evidence which exists of his having, for some time 
during September, entertained a hope of obtaining an excise 
appointment, through his friends Hamilton and Aiken ; in which 
cai^e he would have been able to present a respectable claim upon 
the countenance of the Armours. Put this prospect ended in 
disappointment; and there is reason to conclude, that in a very 
short time after the accouchement, he was once more forbidden 
to visit the house in which hiscliildren and all hut wife resided. 
There was at this time a person named John Kennedy, who 



jEi-TT asmoue's twik childhen. 66 

travelled the district on horseback as mercantile agent, and was 
on intimate terms with Burns. One day, as he was passing 
Mossgiel, Burns stopped him and made the request that he 
would return to Mauchline with a present for " his poor wife." 
Kennedy consented, and the poet hoisted upon the pommel of 
the saddle a bag filled with the dehcacies of the farm. He pro- 
ceeded to Mr. Armour's house, and requested permission to see 
Jean, as the bearer of a message and a present from Robert 
Burns, Mrs. Armour violently protested against his being 
admitted to an interview, and bestowed upon him sundry unce- 
remonious appellations for being the friend of such a man ; she 
was, however, overruled in this instance by her husband, and 
Kennedy was permitted to enter the apartment where Jean was 
lying. He had not been there many minutes, when he heard a 
rushing and screaming in the stair, and, immediately after, 
Burns burst into the room, followed closely by the Armours, 
who seemed to have exhausted their strength in endeavouring to 
repel his intrusion. Burns flew to the bed, and putting his 
cheek to Jean's, and then in succession to those of the slumbering 
infants, wept bitterly. The Armours, it is added by Kennedy, 
who has himself reported the circumstance, remained unaffected 
by his distress ; but whether he was allowed to remain for a 
short time, or immediately after expelled, is not mentioned. 
After hearing this affecting anecdote of Burns, the Lament may 
verily appear to us as arising from — 

" No idly feign'd poetic pains." 

The whole course of the Ayr is fine ; but the banks of that 
river, as it bends to the eastward above MauchHne, are singularly 
beautiful, and they were frequented, as may be imagined, by 
our poet in his solitary walks. Here the muse often visited him, 
fn one of these wanderings, he met among the woods a cele- 
brated beauty of the west of Scotland — a lady, of whom it is 
said that the charms of her person correspond with the character 
of her mind. This incident gave rise, as might be expected, to 
a poem, of which an accouut will be found in the following let- 
ter, in which he enclosed it to the object of his inspiration : — 

« To Miss . 

" Mossgiel, November 18, 1786. 

" Mada.m. — Poets are such outre beings, so much the children 
of wayward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world 
generally allows them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety 
than the sober sons of judgment and prudence. I mention this 
as an apology for the liberties that a nameless stranger has taken 
with you in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave to present 
you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of 
the theme, I am not the proper judge, but it is the best my abi- 
lities can produce ; and, what to a good heart will perhaps be a 
superior grace, 'it is equally sincere as fervent. 

*' The scenery was nearly taken from real hfe, though I dare 
say, madam, you do not recollect it, as I beheve you scarcely 
noticed the poetic revcur as he wandered by you. I had roved 



56 LIFE C? BUtl^B. 

out as diance directed, in the favourite haunts of my muse, on 
the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in all the gaiety of the 
vernal year. The evening sun was flaming over the distant 
western hills : not a breath stirred tlie crimson opening blossom, 
or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a 
poetic heart. I Hstened to the feathered warblers, pouring their 
harmony on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and 
frequently turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their 
little songs, or irighten them to another station. Surely, said 
I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your 
harmonious endeavours to please him, can eye your elusive 
flights to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the 
property nature gives you, your dearest comforts, your helpless 
nesthngs. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across the 
way, what heart at such a time but must have been interested in 
its welfare, and wished it preserved from the radely-browsing 
cattle, or the withering eastern blast ? Such was the scene, 
and such the hour, when in a corner of my prospect I spied 
one of the fairest pieces of nature's workmanship that ever 
crowned a poetic landscape, or met a poet's eye ; those visionary 
bards excepted who hold commerce with aerial beings ! Had 
calumny and villany taken my walk, they had at that moment 
sworn eternal peace with such an object. 

" What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would have 
raised plain, dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure. 

" The enclosed song was the work of my return home ; and 
perhaps it but poorly answers what might have been expected 
from such a scene. *###*# 

" I have the honour to be, madam, yom* most obedient, and 
very humble servant, 

" Robert Buens.** 

Twas even — the dewy fields were green 

On every blade' the pearls hang : 
The zephyr wantou'd round the beau. 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; 
In every glen the mavis sang. 

All nature Ust'ning seemed the while, 
Except where greenwood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes of Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy. 
When, musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her hair like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whispcr'd passing by, 

Behold the lass of Ballochmyle! 



SUSCEPTIBILITY OF BUfilir& ^7 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in Autumn mild; 
When roving through the garden gay, 

Or wandering in the lonely wild : 
But woman, Nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile; 
Even there her other works are foiled 

By the bonny lass of Ballochmyls. 

Oh, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain ! 
Though sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain ; 
Through weary winter's wind and rain, 

With joy, with rapture I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass of Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might cHmb the slippery steeps 

Where fame and honours lofty shine; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine. 

To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine 

With the bonny lass of Ballochmyle." 

In the manuscript book in which our poet has recounted this 
incident, and into which the letter and poem are copied, he com- 
plains that the lady made no reply to his efiusions, and this 
appears to have wounded his self-love. It is not, however, diffi- 
cult to find an excuse for her silence. Bums was at this time 
little known; and, where known at all, noted rather for 
the wild strength of his humour, than for those strains of ten- 
derness in which he afterwards so much excelled. To the lady 
hei*self liisname had, perhaps, never been mentioned, and of such 
a poem she might not consider herseKas the proper judge. Her 
modesty might prevent her fi-om perceiving that the muse 
of Tibullus breathed in this nameless poet, and that her 
beaTity was awakening strains destined to immortality on the 
banks of the Ayr. It may be conceived, also, that, supposing 
the verse duly appreciated, delicacy might find it difficult to 
express its acknowledgments. The fervent imagination of the 
rustic bard possessed more of tenderness than of respect. Instead 
of raising himself to the condition of the object of his admiration, 
he presumed to reduce her to his own, and to strain this high- 
born beauty to his daring bosom. It is true. Burns might have 
found precedents for such freedoms among the poets of Greece 
and Kome and, indeed, of every country And it is not to b« 



68 MPE OF BURNS. 

denied, that lovely women have generally submitted to this sort 
of profanation with patience, and even with good humour. To 
what purpose is it to repine at a misfortune which is the neces- 
sary consequence of their own charms, or to remonstrate with a 
description of men who are incapable of control ? 

" The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 

Are of imagination all compact." 

It may be easily presumed, that the beautiful njTnph or 
Ballochmyle, whoever she may have been, did not reject with 
scorn the adorations of our poet, though she received them with 
silent modesty and dignified reserve. 

The sensibiHty of our bard's temper, and the force of his 
ima^nation, exposed him, in a particular manner, to the impres- 
sions of beauty ; and these quahties, united to his impassioned 
eloquence, gave him in turn a powerful influence over the female 
heart. The banks of the Ajt formed the scene of youthful 
passions of a still tenderer nature, the history of which it would 
be improper to reveal, were it even in our power ; and the traces 
of which will soon be discoverable only in those strains of nature 
and sensibiHty to which they gave birth. The song entitled 
Highland Mary, is known to relate to one of these attachments. 
" It was written," says our bard, '^ on one of the most inter- 
esting passages of my youthful days." The object of this 
passion died in early life, and the impression left on the mind of 
Burns seems to have been deep and lasting. Several years 
afterwards, when he was removed to Nithsdale, he gave vent to 
the sensibility of his recollections in the following impassioned 
lines. In the manuscript book from which we extract them 
they are addressed to To Mary in Heaven ! 

" Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
Oh, Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of bhssful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ^ 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove. 
Where by the winding A}t we met 

To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! httle tliought we ' twas our last 



BUBCEPTIBILITT OF BUKN8. 59 

Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green ; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray, 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ; 
Time but the impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ! 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast?" 

To the deUneations of the poet by himself, by his brother, 
and by his tutor, these additions are necessar}', in order that the 
reader may see his character in its various aspects, and may 
have an opportunity of forming a just notion of the variety, as 
Wfcll as of the power of his original genius. 

We have dwelt the longer on the early part ofhis life, because 
it is the least known, and because, a.s has already been mentioned, 
this part of his history is connected with some views of the con- 
dition and manners of the humblest ranks of society, hitherto 
little observed, and wliich wiH perhaps be found neither useless 
nor uninteresting. 

About the time of his leaving his native country, his corres- 
pondence commences ; and in the series of letters given to the 
world, the chief incidents of the remaining part of his life will 
be found. The authentic, though melancholy record, will 
supersede the necessity of any extended narrative. 

Burns set out for Edinburgh in the month of November, 1786. 
He was furnished with a letter of introduction to Dr. Blacklock 
from the gentleman to whom the doctor had addressed the letter 
which is represented by our bard as the immediate cause of his 
visiting the Scottish metropolis. He was acquainted with Mr. 
Stewart, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the university, and 
had been entertained bj" that gentleman at Catrine, his estate in 
Ayrshire. He had been introduced by Mr. Alexander Dalzeil 
to the Earl of Glencaim, who had expressed his high approbation 
of his poetical talents. He had friends, therefore, who could 
introduce him into the circles of literature as well as of fashion, 
and his own manners and appearance exceeding every expecta- 
tion that could have been formed of them, he soon became an 
object of general curiosity and admiration. The following cir- 
cumstance contributed to this in a remarkable degree : — At the 



60 LIFE OP BUENS. 

time when Burns arrived in Edinburgh, the periodical paper, 
entitled the Lounger, was publishing, every Saturday produc- 
ing a successive number. His poems had attracted the notice 
ot the gentlemen engaged in that undertaking, and the ninety- 
seventh number of those unequal, though frequently beautiful 
e^says, is devoted to An Account of Robert Burns, the Ayrshire 
Ploughman, ^vith Extracts from his Poems, written by the ele- 
gant pen of Mr. Mackenzie. The Lounger had an extensive cir- 
culation among persons of taste and literature, not in Scotland 
only, but in various parts of England, to whose acquaintance, 
therefore, our bard was immediately introduced. The paper of 
INIr. Mackenzie was calculated to introduce him advantageously. 
The extracts are well selected ; the criticisms and reflections are 
judicious as well as generous ; and in the style and sentiments 
there is that happy dehcacy, by which the writings of the 
author are so eminentlj' distinguished. The extracts from 
Bums's poems in the ninety-seventh number of the Lounger, 
were copied into the London as well as into many of the pro- 
vincial papers , and the fame of our bard spread throughout the 
island. Of the manners, character, and conduct of Bums at this 
period, the following account has been given by Mr. Stewart, 
Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, 
in a letter to the Editor, which he is particularly happy to have 
obtained permission to insert in these memoirs : — 

" The first time I saw Robert Bums was on the 23rd of Octo- 
ber, 1786, when he dined at my house in Ayrshire, together 
with our common friend Mr. John Mackenzie, surgeon in 
Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his 
acquaintance. I am enabled to mention the date particularly, 
by some verses which Burns wrote after he returned home, and 
in which the day of our meeting is recorded. My excellent and 
much-lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened to 
arrive at Catrine the same day, and by the kindness and frank- 
ness of his manners, left an impression on the mind of the poet 
which was never effaced. The verses I allude to are among the 
most imperfect of his pieces ; but a few stanzas may perhaps be 
an object of curiosity to you, both on account of the character to 
which they relate, and of the light which they throw on the 
situation and feeUngs of the writer, before his name was known 
to the public. 

I cannot positively say, at this distance of time, whether, at 
the period of our first acquaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of 
his poems had been just published, or was yet in the press. I 
suspect that the latter was the case, as I have still in my pos- 
session copies in his own handwriting of some of his favourite 
performances ; particularly of his Verses on Turning up a Mouse 
with his Plough ; the Mountain Daisy ; and the Lament. On my 
return to Edinburgh, I showed the volume, and mentioned what 
I knew of the author's history, to several of my friends, and 
among others to Mr. Henry Mackenzie, who first recommended 
him to public notice in the ninety-seventh number of The 
Lounger 



BTJBirS VISITS EDIKBUEGH. Wk 

** At this time Bums's prospects in life were so e]ttremely 

floomy, that lie had s^iously formed a plan of going out to 
amaica in a \e^y humble situation ; not, however, without 
lamenting that his want of patronage should force him to think 
of a project so repugnant to his feeHngs, when his ambition 
aimed at no higher an object than the station of an exciseman 
or guager in his own ceuntry. 

" His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, 
simple, manly, and independent; strongly expressive of con- 
©cious genius and worth, but without anything that indicated 
forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. He took his share in con- 
versation, but not mOTe than belonged to him ; and listened witii 
apparent attention and deference on subjects where his want of 
■education deprived him of the means of information. If there 
had been a little more of gentleness and accommodation in his 
temper^ he would, I think^ have been still more interesting, but 
he had been accustomed to give law in the cirde of his ordinary 
acquaintance ; and his dread of anything approaching to mean- 
ness or servility rendered his manner somewhat decided and 
kaa*d. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable among his 
varied attainments, than the fluency, and precision, and origi- 
nality of his language, when he spoke in company ; more par- 
ticularly as he aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and 
avoided more successfully than most Scotchmen the pecuHarities 
ef Scottish phraseology, 

^* He came to Edinburgh -early in the winter following, and 
remained th^e for several months. By whose advice he took 
this step I am unable to say. Perhaps it was suggested only by 
his own curiosity to see a little more of the world ; but, I con - 
fess, I dreaded the consequences from the first, and always 
wished that his pursuits and habits should continue the same as 
in the former part ef his Hfe — with the addition of, what I con- 
sidered as then completely within his reach, a good farm, on 
moderate termsj in a part of the oountiy which was agreeable to 
his taste. 

" The attentions he received during his stay in town from all 
ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have 
turned any head but his own. I cannot say that I could per- 
ceive any unfavourable effect whidi they left on his mind. He 
retained the same simpHcity of manners and appearance which 
had ^ruck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the country; 
ikOT did he seem to feel any additional self-importance from the 
numb^ and rank of his new acquaintance. His dress was p^- 
fectly suited to his station, plain and unpretending, with a 
suflSaent attention to neatness. If I recollect right, he alwaj'S 
wore boots ; and when on more than usual ceremony, buckskin 
breeches. 

" The vaiiety of his engagements, while in Edinburgh, pre- 
vented me from seeing him so often as I could have wished. In 
the course of the spring he called on me once or twice, at my 
request, early in the morning, and walked v/ith me to Braid 
Hills, in the neighbourhood of the town, when he charnved me 
Etiil more by his private conversation than he had ever done in 



Ca WEB OP BUENS. 

company. He was passionately fond of the beauties of nuture; 
and I recollect once he told me, when I was admiring a distanrt 
prospect in one of our morning waiks, that the sight of so many 
smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind, which none could 
TTnderstand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness 
and the worth which they contained. 

" In his political principles he w^as tnen a Jacobite; 
which was perhaps owing partly to this, that his father was 
originally from the estate of Lord Mareschal. Indeed, he did 
not appear to have thought much on such subjects, nor very con- 
sistently. He had a very strong sense of religion, and expressed 
deep regret at the levity with which he had heard ik treated 
occasionallj' in some convivial meetings which he frequented. 
I speak of him as he was in the winter of 1786-7 ; for afterwards 
we met but seldom, and our conversations turned chiefly on his 
literary projects, or his private affairs. 

" I do not recollect whether it appears or not from any of yoar 
letters to me that you had ever seen Bums. If you have, it is 
superfluous for me to add, that the idea which his conversation 
conveyed of the powers of his mind, exceeded, if possible, that 
which is suggested by his writings . Among the poets whom I 
have happened to know, I have been struck, in more than one 
instance, with the unaccountable disparity between their gene- 
ral talents and the occasional inspirations of their more favoured 
moments. But all the faculties of Burns's mind were, as far as 
I could judge, equaUj' vigorous ; and his predilection for poetry 
was rather the result of his own enthusiastic and impassioned 
temper, than of a genius exclusively adapted to that species of 
composition. From his co nversation I should have pronounced 
him to be fitted to excel in whatever walk of ambition he had 
chosen to exert his abihties. 

" Among the subjects on which he was accustomed to dwell, 
the characters of the individuals whom he happened to meet, 
was plainly a favourite one. The remarks he made on them 
were ahvays shrewd and pointed, though frequently inclining too 
much to sarcasm. His praise of those he loved was sometimes 
indiscriminate and extravagant ; but this, I suspect, proceeded 
rather from the caprice and humour of the moment, than from 
the effects of attachment in blinding his judgment. His wit 
was ready, and always impressed with the marks of a vigoroiK 
understanding ; but to my taste, not often pleasing or happy. 
His attempts at epigram, in his printed works, are the only per- 
formances, perhaps, that he has produced totally unworthy of 
his genius. 

" In summer 1787, 1 passed some weeks in Ayrshire, and saw 
Burns occasionally. I think that he made a pretty long excur- 
sion that season to the Highlands, and that he also visited what 
Beattie calls the Arcadi.an ground of Scotland, upon the banks of 
the Teviet and the Tweed. 

"I should have mentioned before, that, notwithstanding 
various reports I heard during the preceding winter, of Burns's 
predilection for convivial, and not very select society, I should 
nave concluded in favour of his habits of sobriety, from all of him 



, 



BUBNS S VISIT TO EDLNBUBGH. 93 

that ever &11 isnder my own observation. He told me indeed 
himself, that the weakness of his stomach was such, as to deprive 
him entirely of any merit in his temperance. I was, however, 
somewhat alai-med ^ibout the effect of his now comparatively 
sedentary and luxurious life, when he confessed to me, the first 
night he spent in m3' house after his winter's campaign in town, 
that he liad been much disturbed when in bed by a palpitation 
at his heart, which, lie said, was a complaint to which he had of 
late become suljject. 

" In the course of the same season, I was led by curiosity to 
attend for an hour or two a Mason Lodge in Mauchhne, where 
Burns presided. He had occa-ion to make some short unpre- 
meditated comphments to different individuals from whom he 
had no reason to expect a visit, and everything he said was 
happily conceived, and forcibly as well as fluently expressed^ 
If I am not mistaken, he told me, that in that village, before 
going to Edinburgh, he had belonged to a small club of such of 
the inhabitants as had a. taste for books, when they used to 
converse and debate on any interesting questions that occurred 
to them in the course of their reading. His manner of speaking 
in public had evidently the marks of some practice in extempore 
elocution. 

" I must not omit to mention, what I have always considered 
as characteristical in a high degree of true genius, the extreme 
fecUity and good-nature of his taste, in judging of the composi- 
tions of others, where there was any real ground for praise. I 
repeated to him many passages of English poeti*y with which he 
was unacquainted, and have more than once witnessed the tears 
of admiration and rapture witli which he heard them. The 
collection of songs by Di*. Aikin, which I first put into his hands, 
he read with unmixed delight, notwithstanding his former 
efforts in that very difficult species of writing ; and I have Httle 
doubt that it had some effect in polishing his subsequent com- 
positions. 

" In judging of prose, I do not think his taste was equallj'' 
Eouad. I onoe read t© him a passage or two in Franklin's 
works, which I thought very happily executed, upon the model 
of Addison ; but he did not appear to relish, or to perceive the 
beaut}' which they derived from their exquisite simplicity, and 
spoke of them with indifference, when compared with the point, 
and antithesis, and quaintness of Junius. The influence of this 
taste is verj^ perceptible in his own prose compositions, although 
their great and various excellences render some of them scarcely 
less objects of wonder than his poetical performances. The late 
Dr. Robertson used to say, that considering his education, the 
lonner seemed to him the more extraordinary of the two. 

" His memory was uixcommonly retentive, at least for poetry, 
ef which he recited to me frequ^itly long eompositions with the 
most minute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, and other 
pieces m our Scottish dialect ; great part of them, he told me, 
he had learned in his childhood from his mother, who delighted 
iii such recitations, and whose poetical taste, rude as it proba- 
bly was, gave, it is .presumable, the first 4ireoti(Ki to her soa'i 
genius. 



if LIFE or buk:?s. 

" Of the iQjore polished verses which accklentally fell into liis 
hands in his early j-ears^ he mentioned particularly the recom- 
mendatory poems by difterent authors, prefixed to Hervey'3 
Meditations, a book which ha.s always had a very wide circulation 
among such of the country people of Scotland as affect to unite 
some degree of taste with their religious studies. And these 
poems (although they are certainly below mediociity,) he conti- 
nued to read with a degree of rapture beyond expression. He took 
notice of this fact himself, as a proof how much the taste is hable 
to be influenced by accidental circumstances. 

" His father appeared to me, from the account he gave of lain, 
to have been a respectable and worthy character, possessed of a 
mind superior to what might have been expected from his station 
in life. He ascribed much of his own principles and feelings to 
the early impressicms he had received from his instructions and 
example. I recollect that he once applied to him (and he added, 
that the passage was a literal statement of the fact,) the two last 
lines of the following passage in the ^linstrel, the whole (rf which 
he repeated with great enthusiasm : — 

* Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 
When fate> relenting, lets the flower revive ; 

Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 

Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to Uv^t 

Is it for this fair virtue oft must strive 
With disappointment, penury, and pain ? 

Na ! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive^ 
And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 

Bright through th' eternal year of love's triumphant 
reign. 
This truth sublime his simple sire had tcmght : 
In soothj 'twas almost all the shepherd knem, 

" With respect to Burns's early education, I cannot say any- 
thing with certainty. He always spoke with respect and gra- 
titude of the schoolmaster who had taught him to read English, 
and who, finding in liis scholar a more than ordinary ardour for 
knowledge, had been at pains to instruct him in the grammati- 
cal principles of the language. He began the study of Latin, 
but dropped it before he had finished the verbs. I have some- 
times heard him quote a few Latin words, such as omnia vincii 
amor, &c., but they seemed to be such as he liad caught from 
conversation, and which he repeated by rote. I think he had a 
project, after he came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting the study 
ander his intimate friend, the late Mr. Nicol, one of the masters 
of the grammar-school here : but I do not know that he ever 
proceeded so far as to make the attempt. 

" He certainly possessed a smattering of French ; and if he 
had an affectation in anytilmg, it was in introducing occasionally 
a word or phrase from that language. It is possible that his 
knowledge in this respect might be more extensive than I sup- 



tlTERAET JIECEPTION OF BURNS. 65 

% 

pose it to be ; but this you can learn from kis mo-re intimate 
acquaintance. It would be worth while to enquire, whether he 
was able to read the French authors with such facility as to 
receive from them any improvement to his taste. For my own 
part, I doubt it much ; nor would I believe it but on very strong 
and pointed evidence. 

^' If my memory does not fail me, he was well instructed in 
arithmetic^nd knew something of practical geometry, particu- 
larly of surveying. All his other attainments were entirely his 
own, 

" The last time I saw him was during the winter 1788-1789, 
when he passed an evening with me at Drumseugh, in the neigh- 
bourhood of Edinburgh, where I was then living. My friend, 
Mr. Alison, was the only other person in company. I never 
saw him more agreeable or interesting. A present which Mr. 
Alison sent him afterwards of his Essays on Taste, drew from 
Bums a lett^ of acknowledgment, which I remember to have 
read with some degree of surprise, at the distinct conception 
be appeared to have fermed from it of the general principles of 
the doctrine ot association.'' 

The scene that opened on our bard at Edinburgh was altoge- 
ther new, and in a variety of other respects highly interesting, 
especially to one of his disposition of mind. To use an expres- 
sion of his own, he found himself " suddenly translated from the 
veriest shades of life," into the presence, and into the society, 
of a number of persons, preHously known to him bj' report as of 
the highest distinctio^i in his countrj^, and whose characters it 
was natural for him to examine v\ith no common curiosit3\ 

From the men of letters in general, his reception was particu- 
larly fiattesing. Tlie late Dr. Robertson, Dr. Blair, Dr. Gre- 
gory, Mr. Stewart, Mr. JMackenzie, and Mr. Fraser Tytler, may 
be mentioned in the hst of those who perceived his uncommon 
talents, who acknowledged more especially his powers of con- 
versation, and who interested themselves in the cultivation of 
his genius. In Edinburgh literary and fashionable society are 
a good deal mixed. Our bard was an acceptable guest in the 
gayest and most elevated circles, and frequently received from 
female beauty and elegance those attentions above all others 
most grateful to him. At the table of Loi-d Monboddo he was 
a ft-equent guest; and while he enjoyed the society and partook 
of the hospitalities of the venerable judge, he experienced the 
kindness and condescension of his lovely and accompKshed 
daughter. The singular beauty of this young lady was illumi- 
nated by that happy expression of countenance which results 
from the union of cultivated taste and superior understanding 
with the finest affections of the mind. The influence of such 
attractions was not unfelt by our poet. " There has not been 
anything like Miss Burnet," said he, in a letter to a friend, " in 
all the combinations of beauty, gi*ace, and goodness, the Creator 
has formed since Milton's Eve on the first day of her existence.** 
In his address to Edinburgh, she is celebrated in a strain of still 
greater elevation ; — 

5 »3 



^ LITF O? run 55. 

*' Fair Bnrnet strikes th' adorning eye. 

Heaven's beouties on my fancy shine; 
I see the Sire of Love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine ! " 

This lovely woman died a few years afterwards in the Sower 
of youth. Our bard expressed his sensibility on tliat occasion 
in verses addressed to her memory. 

Among the men of rank and fashion Burns was particularly 
distinguished by James, Earl of Glencairn. On the motion of 
this nobleman, the Caledonian Hunt, an association of the 
principal of the nobihty and gentry of Scotland, extended their 
patronage to om- bard, and admitted him to their gay orgies. 
He repaid their notice by the dedication of the enlarged and 
improved edition of his poems, in which he has celebrated their 
patriotism and independence in very animated terms. 

" I congratulate my country' that the blood of her ancient 
heroes runs uncontaminated, and that, from your courage, 
knowledge, and pubUc spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, 
and liberty. *#*****= May corruption shrink at 
your kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny in the ruler, 
and licentiousness in the people, equally find in you an inexora- 
ble foe." 

It is to be presumed that these generous sentiments, littered 
at an era singularly propitious to independence of character and 
conduct, were favourably received by the persons to whom they 
were addressed, and that they were echoed fi'om every bosom, 
as well as from that of the Earl of Glencairn. This accomphshed 
nobleman, a scholar, a man of taste and sensibility, died soon 
afterwards. Had he lived, and had his power equalled his 
wishes, Scotland might still have exulted in the genius, instead 
of lamenting the early fate of her favourite bard. 

A taste for letters is not always conjoined with habits of tem- 
perance and regularity ; and Edinburgh, at the period of which 
we speak, contained, perhaps'^ an uncommon proportion of men 
of considerable talents devoted to social excesses, in which their 
talents were wasted and debased. 

Burns entered into several parties of this description with 
the usual vehemence of his character. His generous aiiections, 
his ardent eloquence, his brilliant and daring imagination, fitted 
him to be the idol of such associations ; and accustoming himself 
to conversation of unlimited range, and to festive indulgences 
that scorned restraint, he gradually lost some portion of his 
relish for the more pure, but less poignant pleasures, to be found 
in the circles of taste, elegance, and literature. This sudden 
alteration in his habits of life operated on him physically as well 
as morally. The humble fare of an Ayrshire peasant he had 
exchanged for the luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and the 
effects of this change on his ardent constitution could not be 
inconsiderable. But whatever influence might be produced on 
his conduct, his excellent understanding suffered no correspond- 
ing debasement. He estimated his friends and associates of 



AtrHNS AND HIS CONTEMPOBAEIES. 67 

every description at their proper value, and appreciated his own 
conduct with a precision that might give scope to much curious 
and melancholy reflection. He saw his danger, and at times 
formed resolutions to guard against it ; but he had embarked on 
the tide of dissipation, and was borne along its stream. 

Of the state of his mind at this time, an authentic, though 
imperfect, document remains, in a book which he procured in 
the spring of 1787, for the purpose, as he himself informs us, of 
recording in it whatever seemed worthy of observation. The 
following extracts may serve as a specimen : — 

" JEdinhurghf April 9, 1787. 

" As I have seen a good deal of human life at Edinburgh, a 
great many characters which are new to one bred up in the 
shades of life as I have been, I am determined to take down my 
remarks on the spot. Gray observes, in a letter to Mr. Palgrave, 
that ' half a word fixed upon or near a spot, is worth a cartload 
of recollection.' I don't know how it is with the world in gene- 
ral, but with me, making my remarks is by no means a solitary 
pleasure. I want some one to laugh with me, some one to be 
grave wath me, some one to please and help my discrimination 
with his or her own remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire 
my acuteness and penetration. The world are so busied with 
selfish pursuits, ambition, vanity, interest, or pleasure, that 
very few think it worth their while to make any observation on 
what passes around them, except where that observation is a 
sucker or branch of the darling plant they are rearing in their 
fancy. Nor am I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental 
flights of novel-writers, and the sage philosophy of moralists, 
whether w^e are capable of so intimate and cordial a coaUtion of 
friendship, as that one man may pour out his bosom, his every 
thought and floating fancy, his very inmost soul, with unreserved 
cx)nfidence to another, without hazard of losing part of that 
respect which man deserves from man ; or, from the unavoida- 
ble imperfections attending human nature, of one day repenting 
his confidence. 

" For these reasons I am determined to make these pages my 
confidant. I will sketch every character that any way strikes 
me, to the best of my power, with unshrinking justice. I will 
insert anecdotes, and take down remarks, in the old law phrase, 
tvitJwut fetid or favour. WTiere I hit on anything clever, my 
own applause will in some measure feast my vanity ; and, beg- 
ging Patroclus' and Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key a 
security at least equal to the bosom of any friend whatever. 

" My own private story, likewise, my love adventures, my 
rambles ; the frowns and smiles of fortune on my hardship ; 
my poems and fragments that must never see the light, shall be 
occasionally inserted. In short, never did fom- shillings purchase 
so much friendship, since confidence went first to market, or 
honesty was set up to sale. 

"To these seemingly invidious, but too just ideas of human 
friendship, I would cheerfully make one exception — the connec- 
tion between two persons of different sexes, when their interests 
are united and absorbed by the tie of love — 



68 I^IPE OP BUEN9. 

* When thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, 
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.* 

There confidence — confidence that exalts them the more in one 
another's opinion, that endeaK them the more to each other's 
hearts, unreservedly ' reigns and revels.' But this is not my 
lot ; and, in my situation, if I am wise (which, by the bye, I 
have no a^reat chance of being), my fate should be cast with the 
Psalmist's sparrow, ' to watch alone on the house tops.' Oh 
the pity ! 

" There are few of the sore evils under the sun give me more 
uneasiness and chagrin than the comparison how a man of 
genius, nay, of avowed worth, is received everywhere, ^^atll the 
reception which a mere ordinary character, decorated with the 
trappings and futile distinctions of fortune, meets. I imagine 
a man of abihties, his breast glowing with honest pride, conscious 
that men are born equal, still giving honour to whom honour is 
due ; he meets at a great man's table, a Squire something, or a 
Sir somebody; he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the 
bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, beyond, per- 
haps, any one at table ; yet how will it mortify him to see a 
fellow whose abilities would scarcely have made an eighi^enny 
tailor, and whose heart is not worth three farthings, meet with 
attention and notice that are withheld from the son of genius 
and poverty! 

"The noble Glencairn has wounded me to the soul here, 
because I dearly esteem, respect, and love him. He showed so 
much attention, engrossing attention, one day, to the only 
blockhead at table (the whole company consisted of his lordship, 
dunderpate, and myself), that I was within half a point of throw- 
ing down my gage of contemptuous defiance ; but he shook my 
hand, and looked so benevolently good at parting. God bless 
him ! though I should never see him more, I shall love him until 
my dying day ! I am pleased to think 1 am so capable of the 
throes of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in some othei* 
vii-tues. 

" With Dr. Blair I am more at my ease. I never respect 
him with Immble veneration; but when he kindly interests 
himself in my welfare, or still more, when he descends from his 
pinnacle, and meets me on eqwal ground in conversation, my 
heart overflows with what is called liking. When he neglects 
me for the mere carcase of greatness, or when his eye measures 
the difference of our points of elevation, I say to myself, with 
Bcarcely any emotion, what do I care for him or his pomp either ?" 

The intentions of the i>oet in procuring this book, so fully 
described by himself, were very imperfectly executed. Ho haj 
inserted in it ^e\v, or no incidents, but several observations and 
refiections, of which the greater part that are proper for the 
public eye will be found interwoven in his letters. The most 
curious particulars in the book are the delineations of the cha- 
racters he met vvitli. These are not numerous ; but they ai*e 
chiefly of persons of distinction in the repuhhc of letters, and 



BUENS AND HIS C0NTEMP0EAEIE8. C9 

nothing Imt the delicacy and respect due to living characters 
prevents us from committing them to the press. Though it 
appears that in his conversation he was sometimes disposed to 
sarcastic remarks on the men with whom he lived, nothing of 
this kind is discoverable in these more deliberate efforts of his 
understanding, which, while they exhibit great clearness of ♦ 
discrimination, manifest also the wdsh, as well as the power, to 
bestow high and generous praise. 

As a specimen of these delineations, we give the character of 
Dr. Blair, who has now paid the debt of nature, in the ftOl 
confidence that this freedom will not be found inconsistent wdth 
the respect and veneration due to that excellent man, the last 
star in the literary constellation, by which the metropolis of 
Scotland was, in the earlier part of the present reign, so beauti- 
fully illuminated. 

"It is not easy forming an exact judgment of any one; but, 
in my opinion, Dr. Blair is merely an astonishing proof of what • 
industiy and application can do. Natural parts like his are 
frequently to be met with ; his vanity is proverbially known 
among his acquaintance ; but he is justlj^ at the head of what 
may be called fine wiiting ; and a critic of the first, the very 
first rank in prose ; even in poetry, a bard of Nature's making 
can only take the jpas of his. He has a heart, not of the very 
finest water, but far fi-om being an ordinary one. In short, he 
is ti-uly a worthy and most respectable character.'* 

"[Mr. Cromek informs us that one of the poet's remarks, 
when he first came to Edinburgh, was, that between the men of 
rustic life and the polite world he observed little difference ; that 
in the former, though unpolished by fashion and unenlightened 
by science, he had found much observation, and much intelli- 
gence; but a refined and accomplished woman was a thing 
almost new to him, and of which he had formed but a very 
inadequate idea. Mr. Lockhart adds, that there is reason to 
believe that Burns w^as much more a favourite amongst the 
female than the male part of elevated Edinburgh society to 
which he was introduced, and that, in consequence, in all pro- 
bability, of the greater deference he paid to the gentler sex. " It 
is sufficiently apparent," adds Mr. L., " that there were many 
points in Burns's conversational habits, which men, accustomed 
to the dehcate observances of refined society, might be more 
willing to tolerate under the first excitement of personal curiosity, 
than from any very deliberate estimate of the claims of such a 
genius, under such circumstances developed. He by no means 
restricted his sarcastic observations on those whom he encoun- 
tered in the world to the confidence of his note-book, but startled 
ears polite with the utterance of audacious epigrams, far too 
witty not to obtain general circulation in so small a society as 
that of the northern capital, far .too bitter not to produce deep 
resentment, far too numerous not to spread fear almost as widely 
as admiration." An example of his un scrupulousness is thus 
given by Mr. Cromek. " At a private breakfast, in a literary 
circle of Edinburgh, the conversation tuiT.ed on the poetical 
merit and pathos of Gray's Elegy, a po^m of which he was 



70 iiiE OP BUEirs. 

enthusiasticall}' fond. A clergjanan present, reniarkable for 
his love of paradox, and for his eccentric notions upon every 
subject, distinguislied himself by an injudicious and ill-timed 
attack on this exquisite poem, whicli Burns with generous 
warmth for the reputation of Gray, nianfuU}' defended. As the 
gentleman's remarks were rather general than specific, Burns 
urged him to bring forward the passages which he thought 
exceptionable. He made several attempts to quote the poem, 
but always in a blundering, inaccurate manner. Burns bore all 
this for a good while with his usual good-natured forbearance, 
tiU at length, goaded by the fastidious criticisms and wretched 
quibblings of his opponent, he roused himself, and with an eye 
flashing contempt and indignation, and with great vehemence 
of gesticulation, he thus addressed the cold critic : '-Sir, I now 
perceive a man may be an excellent judge of poetry by square 
and rule, and after all be a d — d blockhead.' " " To pass from 
these trifles," says Mr. Lockart, " it needs no effort of imagina- 
tion to conceive what the sensations of an isolated set of scholars 
(almost all either clergymen or professors,) must have been in 
the presence of this big-boned, black-browed, brawny stranger, 
with his great flashing eyes, who having forced his way among 
them from the plough-tail, at a single stride, manifested, in the 
whole strain of his bearing and conversation, a most thorough 
conviction, that, in the society of the most eminent men of his 
nation, he was exactly where he was entitled to be; hardly 
deigned to flatter them by exhibiting even an occasional symp- 
tom of being flattered by their notice ; by turns calml}^ measured 
himself against the most cultivated understandings of his time 
in discussion ; overpowered the hon mots of the most celebrated 
convivialists by broad floods of merriment, impregnated with all 
the burning life of genius; astounded bosoms habitually 
enveloped in thrice-phed folds of social reserve, bj' compelling 
them to tremble, nay, to tremble visibly, beneath the fearless 
touch of natural pathos; and all this ifithout indicating the 
smallest wiUingness to be ranked among those professional 
ministers of excitement, who are content to be paid in money and 
smiles for doing what the spectators and auditors would be 
ashamed of doing in their own persons, even if they had the 
power of doing it ; and, last, and probably worst of all, who was 
known to be in the habit of enlivening societies which they 
would have scorned to approach, still more frequently than their 
own, with eloqCience no less magnificent ; with wit in all like- 
lihood still more daring ; often enough, as the superiors whom 
he fronted without alarm, might have guessed from the beginning 
and had, ere long,- no occasion to guess, with wit pointed at 
themselves."] 

" By the new edition of his poems Burns acquired a sum of 
money that enabled him not only to partake of the pleasures of 
Edinburgh, but to gratify a desire he had long entertained, of 
visiting those parts of his native country most attractive by their 
beauty or their grandeur ; a desire which the return of summer 
naturally revived. The scenery on the banks of the Tweed, and 
of its tributary streams, strongly interested his fancy; auii 



THE DIABT. 71 

**ccordingly he left Edinburgh on the 6th of May, 1787, on a 
tour through a country so much celebrated in the yuybX songs of 
Scotland. He travelled on horseback, and was accompanied, 
during some part of his journey, by Mr. Ainslie, now writer to 
the signet, a gentleman who enjoyed much of his friendship and 
of his confidence. Of this tour a journal remains, which, however, 
contains only occasional remarks on the scenery, and which is 
chiefly occupied with an account of the author's different 
stages, and with his observations on the various characters to 
whom he was introduced. In the course of this tour he visited 
Mr. Ainshe of Berrywell, the father of his companion; Mr. 
Brydone, the celebrated traveller, to whom he carried a letter of 
introduction from Mr. Mackenzie ; the Rev. Dr. Somerville of 
Jedburgh, the historian ; Mr. and Mrs. Scott of Wauchope ; 
Dr. Elliot, a physician, retired to a romantic spot on the banks 
of the Eoole ; Sir Alexander Don ; Sir James Hall of Dunglass; 
and a variety of other respectable characters. Everywhere the 
fame of the poet had spread before him, and everj^vhere he 
received the most hospitable and flattering attentions. At Jed- 
burgh he continued several days, and was honoured by the 
magistrates with the freedom of their borough. The following 
may serve as a specimen of this tour, which the perpetual 
reference to living characters prevents us giving at large : — 

" Saturday, May Qth. Left Edinburgh — Lammer-muir-hills, 
miserably dreary in general, but at times very picturesque. 

** Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. Reach Beny- 
well. # # # The family meeting with my 

compagnon de voyage, very chai*ming; particularly the 
sister. * * * 

" Sunday. Went to Church at Dunse. Heard Dr. 
Bowmaker. 

" Motiday. Coldstream — glorious river Tweed — clear and 
majestic — fine bridge — dine at Coldstream with Mr. Ainslie 
and Mr. Foreman. Beat Mr. Foreman in a dispute about 
Voltaire. Drink tea at Lenel-House with Mr. and Mrs. 
Brydone. # * # Reception extremely flattering. 
Sleep at Coldstream. 

" Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charming situation of the 
town — fine bridge over the Tweed. Enchanting views and 
prospects on both sides of the river, especially on the Scotch 
side # # # Visit Roxburgh Palace — fine situation 
of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a holly-bush growing where 
Tames II. was accidentally killed by the bursting of a cannon. 
A small old religious ruin, and a fine old garden, planted by the 
reh'gious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hottentot, a mditre 
d'hotel of the duke's — climate and soil of Berwickshire, and 
even Roxburghshire, superior to Ayrshire — bad roads — turnip 
and sheep husbandrj^, their great inprovements. * * * 
Low markets, consequently low^ lands — magnificence of farmers 
and farm-houses. Come up the Teviot, and un the Jed to Jed- 
burgh to lie, and so wish myself good-night. 

" Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. * * * # 
Charming romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gardens and 



iZ LIPE or BTTEyS. 

orcliards, intermingled among the houses and the ruins of a 
once magnificent cathedral. All the tqwnis here have the 
appearance of old rude grandeur, but extremely idle. Jed, a 
fine romantic little river. Dined with Captain Rutherford, 

* * # return to Jedburgh. Walk up the Jed with some 
ladies to be shown Lrove-lane, and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. 
Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, and to Mr. Somerville, the 
clergyman of the parish, a man and a gentleman, but sadly 
addicted to punning. 

" Jedbnrgh^ Saturdai^ Was presented by the magistrates 
with the freedom of the town. 

"Took farewell of Jedburgh with some melancholy sensations. 

" Monday, May ].4f A, Kelso. Dine with the farmers' club — 
all gentlemen talking of high matters — each of them keeps a 
hunter from £30 te £50 value, and attends the fox-hunting club 
in the county. Go out with Mr. Ker, one of the club, and a 
ftiend of ]\lr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind and manners, Mr. 
Ker is astonishingly hke my dear old friend Robert Muir — every 
thing in his house elegant. He offers to accompany me in my 
English tour. 

" Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander Don — a very wet day. 

* * * Sleep at Jklr. Ker's again, and set out next daj' for 
Melrose — visit Dryburgh, a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. 
Ci-oss the Leader, and come up the Tweed to Melrose. Dine 
there, and visit that far-famed glorious ruin — come to Selkirk 
up the banks of Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, both 
on the Tweed and Ettrick, remarkablj^ stony." 

Having spent three weeks exploring this mteresting scenery, 
Burns crossed over into Northumberland. Mr. Ker and Mr. 
Hood, two gentlemen with whom he had become acquainted in 
the course of his tour, accompanied him. He visited Alnwick 
Castle, the princely seat of the Duke of Northumberland ; the 
Hermitage and Old Castle of Warkworth ; Morpeth and New- 
castle. In this last town he spent two days, and then proceeded 
to the south-west, by Hexam and Wardrue, to Carlisle. After 
spending a day at Carhsle with his friend Mr. jMitchel, he 
returned into Scotland, and at Annan his journal terminates 
abruptly. 

Of the various persons with whom he became acquainted in 
the course of this journey, he has, in general, given some account, 
and almost always a favourable one. That on the banks of the 
Tweed, and of the Teviot, our bard should find nj^mphs that 
were beautiful, is what might be confidently presumed. Two 
of these are particularly described in his journal. But it does 
not appear that the scenery, or its inhabitants, produced any 
effort of hi? muse, as was to have been wished and expected. 
From Annan, Burns proceeded to Dumfries, and thence through 
Sanquhar, to Mossgiel, near Mauchline, in Ayrshire, where he 
arrived about the 8th of June, 1787, after along absence of six 
busy and eventful months. It will easily be conceived with 
what pleasure and pride he was received by his mother, his bro- 
thers, and sisters. He had left them poor and comparatively 
friendless ; he retumrd to them high in pubhc estimation, and 



THB DIABT. 73 

easy in Iub circumstances. He returned to them unchanged in 
his ardent affections, and ready to share with them to the 
uttermost farthing, the pittance that fortune had bestowed. 

Having remained with them a few days, he proceeded again 
to Edinburgh, and immediately set out on a journey to the 
Highlands. Of this tour no particulars have been found among 
his man\iscripts. A letter to his friend Mr. Ainslie, dated 
Arrochary hy Lochlongy June 28, 1787, commences as 
follows : — 

" I write you this on my tour through a country where 
savage streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread 
with savage flocks, which starvingly support as savage inha- 
bitants. My last stage was Inverary — to-morrow night's stage 
Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have answered your kind letter 
but you know I am a man of many sins." 

Part of a letter from our bard to a friend, giving some account 
of his journey, has been communicated to the editor. The 
reader will be amused with the following extract : — 

" On our return, at a Highland gentleman's hospitable man- 
sion, we fell in with a merry party, and danced till the ladies 
left us, at three in the morning. Our dancing was none of the 
French or EngHsh insipid formal movements ; The ladies sang 
Scotch songs like angels, at intervals : then we flew at Bah at 
the hewsteVf Tullochgortmiy Loch JSrroch side, &c., hke midges 
sporting in the mottie sun, or craws prognosticating a stonn in 
a hairst day. When the dear lassies left us, we ranged round 
the bowl till the good-feUow hour of six ; except a few minutes 
that we went out to pay our devotions to the glorious lamp of 
day peering over the towering top of Benlomond. We all 
kneeled ; our worthy landlord's son held the bowl, each man a 
fall glass in his hand ; and I, as priest, repeated some rhyming 
nonsense, like Thomas-a-Rhymer's prophecies, I suppose. After 
a small refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to 
spend the day on Lochlomond, and reached Dumbarton in the 
evening. We dined at another good fellow's house, and con- 
sequently pushed the bottle ; when we went out to mount our 
horses, we found ourselves * No vera fou but gayhe yet.' My 
two friends and I rode soberly down the Loch side, till by came 
a Highlandman at a gallop, on a tolerably good horse, but which 
had never known the ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned 
to be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off we started, whip 
and spur. My companions, though seemingly gaily mounted, 
feU sadly astern ; but my old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the 
Rosinante family, she strained past the Highlandman in spite 
of all his efforts, with the hair-halter : just as I was passing him, 
Donald wheeled his horse, as if to cross before me to mar my 
progress, when down came his horse, and threw his breekless 
rider in a chpt hedge ; and down came Jenny Geddes over all, 
and my hardship between her and the Highlandman's horse. 
Jenny Geddes trode over me with such cautious reverence, that 
matters were not so bad as might well have been expected ; so I 
came off with a few cuts and bruises, and a thorough resolution 
to be a pattern of sobriety for the future. 

H 



74 LIFE OF ccn>f3. 

" I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the scrioim 
business of life. I am, just as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, 
raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, I shall somewhere have 
a farm soon. I was going to say, a wife too ; but that must 
never be my blessed lot. I am but a younger son of the house 
of Parnassus, and, like other younger sons of great famihes, I 
may intrigue, if I choose to run all risks, but must not marry. 

" I am afraid I have almost ruined one source, the principal 
one indeed, of my former happiness — that eternal propensity I 
always had to fall in love. My heart no more glows with feverish 
rapture. I have no paradisiacal evening interviews stolen from 
the restless cares and prying inhabitants of this weary world. 
I have only. * * # * This last is one of your distant 
acquaintance, has a fine figure and elegant manners, and in the 
train of some great folks whom you know, has seen the politest 
quarters in Europe. I do like her a good deal ; but what piques 
me is her conduct at the commencement of our acquaintance. I 

frequently visited her when I was in , and after passing 

regularly the intermediate degrees between the distant formal 
bow and the famihar grasp round the waist, I ventured in my 
careless way, to talk of friendship in rather ambiguous terms ; 

and, after her return to , I wrote to her in the same style. 

Miss, construing my words farther I suppose than I intended, 
flew ofFin a tangent of female dignity and reserve, like a moun- 
tain lark in an April morning ; and wrote me an answer which 
measured me out very completely what an immense way I had 
to travel before I coidd reach the climate of her favour. But I 
am an old hawk at the sport ; and wrote her such a cool, deliberate 
prudent reply as brought my bird from her aerial towerings 
pop do\vn at my foot like corporal Trim*s hat. 

''As for the rest of my acts and my wars, and all my wise 
sayings, and why my mare was called Jenny Geddes, they shall 
be recorded in a few weeks hence, at Linlithgow, in the chronicles 
of your memory, by 

"Robert Burns." 

From this journey Bums retin*ned to his friends in AjTshire, 
with whom ho spent the month of July, renewing his friendships, 
and extending his acquaintance throughout the country, where 
he was now very generally known and admired. In August he 
again visited Edinburgh, whence he undertook another journey 
towards the middle of this month, in company with Mr. M. 
Adair, now Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate, of which this gentleman 
has favoured us with the following account : — 

Burns and I left Edinburgh together in August, 1787. We 
rode by Linlithgow and Carron, to Stirling. We visited the 
iron works at Carron, with which the poet was forcibly struck. 
The resemblance between that place and its inhabitants to the 
cave of the Cyclops, which must have occurred to every clas- 
sical reader, presented itself to Burns. At Stirling the prospects 
from the castle strongly interested him ; in a former visit to 
which, his national feehngs had been powerfully excited by the 
ruinous and roofless state of the haU in which the Scottish 



BURNS AND NICOL. 75 

pqr^'a^T'nrs >tt1 froqn^ntlv b^en h^^ld. His indignation had 
vented itself in some imprudent, but not unpoetical lines, which 
had given much offence, and which he took this opportunity of 
erasnig, bj^ breaking the pane of the window at the inn on which 
they were written. 

" At Stirling we met with a company of travellers from Edin- 
burgh, among whom was a character in many respects congenial 
with that of Burns. This was Nicol, one of the teachers of the 
High Grammar- School at Edinburgh — the same wit and power 
of conversation, the same fondness for convivial society, and 
thoughtlessness of to-morrow, characterised both. Jacobitical 

Erinciples in politics were common to both of them ; and these 
ave been suspected, since the revolution of France, to have 
given place in each to opinions apparently opposite. I regret 
that I have preserved no memorabilia of their conversation, 
either on this or on other occasions, when I happened to meet 
them together. Many songs were sung, which I mention for 
the sake of observing, that when Burns was called in his turn, 
he was accustomed, instead of singing, to recite one or other of 
his own shorter poems, with a tone and emphasis which, though 
not correct or harmonious, were impressive and pathetic. This 
he did on the present occasion. 

"From Stirling we went next morning through the romantic 
and fertile vale of Devon to Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, 
then inhabited by Mrs. Hamilton, with the younger part of 
whose famhy Burns had been previously acquainted. He intro- 
duced me to the family, and there was formed my first acquaint- 
ance with Mrs. Hamilton's eldest daughter, to whom I have 
been married for nine years. Thus was I indebted to Bums for 
a connection from which I have derived, and expect farther to 
derive, much happiness. 

" During a residence of about ten days at Harvieston, we 
made excursions to visit various parts of the surrounding sce- 
nery, inferior to none in Scotland in beauty, sublimity, and 
romantic interest : particularly Castle Campell, the ancient seat 
of the family of Argyle ; and the famous cataract of the Devon, 
called the Caldron Linn ; and the Rumbling Bridge, a single 
broad arch, thrown by the Devil, if tradition is to be beheved, 
across the river, at about the height of a hundred feet above its 
bed. I am surprised that none of these scenes should have called 
forth an exertion of Burns's muse. But I doubt if he had much 
taste for the picturesque. I well remember, that the ladies at 
Harvieston, who accompanied us on this jaunt, expressed their 
disappointment at his not expresssing, in more glowing and 
fervid language, his impressions of the Caldron Linn scene, cer- 
tainly highly sublime, and somewhat horrible. 

" A visit to Mrs. Bruce, of Clackmannan, a lady above 
ninety, the lineal descendant of that race which gave the Scottish 
throne its brightest ornament, interested his feelings more pow- 
erfully. The venerable dame, with characteristical dignity, 
informed me, on my observing that I believed she was descended 
from the family of Kobert Bruce, that Robert Bruce was sprung 
from her family. Though almost deprived of speech by a 



76 LIFE OP BUENS. 

paralytic afibction, she preserved her hospitality aud urbanity. 
She was in possession of the hero's helmet and two-handed sword, 
with which she conferred on Burns and myself the honour of 
knighthood, remarking, that she had a better right to confer 
thaX title than some people. * ^ * ^ You will, 
of course, conclude, that the old lady's political tenets were as 
Jacobitical as the poet's, a conformity which contributed not a 
little to the cordiahty of our reception and entertainment. She 
gave as her first toast after dinner, Awa' Uncos, or Away with 
the Strangers. Who these strangers were you will readily under- 
stand. Mrs. A. corrects me by saying it should be JEfooi, or 
JSooi UncoSj a sound used by shepherds to direct their dogs to 
drive awaj^ the sheep. 

" We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross (on the shore of 
Lochleven,) and Queensferry. I am inclined to think Burns 
knew nothing of poor Michael Bruce, who was then alive at 
Kinross, or had (hed there a short while before. A meeting 
between the bards, or a visit to the deserted cottage and early 
grave of poor Bruce, would have been highly interesting. 

" At Dunfermline we visited the ruined abbey and the abbey- 
church, now consecrated to Presbyterian worship. Here I 
mounted the cutti/ stool, or stool of repentance, assuming the 
character of a penitent for fornication ; while Burns from the 
pulpit addressed to me a ludicrous reproof and exhortation, 
parodied from that which had been delivered to himself in 
Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured me, once been one oi 
seven^^ho mounted the seat of shame together. 

" In the churchyard two broad flag-stones marked the grave 
of Robert Bruce, for whose memory Burns had more than com- 
mon veneration. He knelt and kissed the stone with sacred 
fervour, and heartily {suus ut mos erat) execrated the worse than 
Gothic neglect of the first of Scottish heroes." 

The surprise expressed by Dr. Adair, in his excellent letter, 
that the romantic scenery of the Devon should have failed to 
call forth any exertion of the poet's muse, is not in its nature 
singular ; and the disappointment felt at his not expressing in 
more glowing language his emotions on the sight of the famous 
cataract of that river is similar to what was felt by the friends 
of Burns on other occasions of the same nature. Yet the infer- 
ence that Dr. Adair seems inchned to draw from it, that he had 
little taste for the picturesque, might be questioned, even if it 
stood uncontroverted by other evidence. The muse of Burns 
was in a high degree capricious ; she came uncalled, and often 
refused to attend at his bidding. Of all the numerous subjects 
suggested to him b}^ his friends and correspondents, there is 
scarcely one that he adopted. The very expectation that a 
particular occasion would excite the energies of fancy, if com- 
municated to Burns, seemed in him, as in other poets, destructive 
of the effect expected. Hence perhaps may be explained, why 
the banks of the Devon and of the Tweed form no part of the 
Bubjects of his song. 

A similar train of reasoning may perhaps explain the want 
of emotion with which he viewed the Caldron Linn. Certainly 



BUEKS AND NICOL. 77 

there are no affections of the mind more deadened by the influ- 
ence of previous expectation than those arising from the sight of 
natural objects^ and more especially of objects of grandeur. 
Minute descriptions of scenes of a sublime nature should never 
be given to those who are about to view them, particularly if they 
are persons of great strength and sensibility of imagination. 
Lan^juage seldom or never conveys an adequate idea of such 
objects, but in the mind of a great poet it may excite a picture 
that far transcends them. The imagination of Burns might 
foiTH a cataract, in comparison with which the Caldron Linn 
should seem the purling of a rill, and even the mighty Falls of 
Niagara a humble cascade. 

Whether these suggestions may assist in explaining our bard's 
deficiency of impression on the occasion referred to, or whether 
it ought rather to be imputed to some pre-occupation, or indis- 
position of mind, we presume not to decide : but that he was in 
general feelingly alive to the beautiful or sublime in scenery, 
may be supported by irresistible evidence. It is true this plea- 
sure was greatly heightened in his mind, as might be expected, 
when combined with moral emotions of a kind with which it 
happily unites. That under this association Bums contemplated 
the scenery of the Devon with the eye of a genuine poet, the 
following lines written at this very period may bear witness : — 

" ON A YOUNG- LADY, RESIDING ON THE BANKS OP THE 
SMALL BIVER DEVON, CLACKMANNANSHIRE, BUT WHOSE 
INPANT YEARS WERE SPENT IN AYRSHIRE. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear, winding Devon 
With green-spreading bushes and flowers blooming fair ; 

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon, 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower. 
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower. 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. 
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 

And far be thou distant, thou reptile, that seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 

And England, triumphant, display her proud rose ; 

A fairer than either adorns the green vallies 

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows ! ** 

The different journies already mentioned did not satisfy the 
curiosity of Burns, About the beginning of September, he 
again set out from Edinburgh on b. more extended tour to the 
Highlands, in company with Mr. Nicol, with whom he had now 

h3 



ys LIFE or BUENS. 

contracted a particilar intimacy, which lasted during the re- 
mainder of his life. Mr. Nicol was of Dumfriesshire, of a de- 
cent equally humble with our poet. Like him he rose by the 
strength of his talents, and fell by the strength of his passions. 
He died in the summer of 1797. Having received the elements 
of a classical instruction at his parish school, Mr. Nicol made a 
very rapid and singular proficiency ; and by early undertaking 
the office of an instructor himself, he acquired the means of 
entering himself at the University of Edinburgh. There he was 
first a student of theology, then a student of medicine, and 
afterwards employed in the assistance and instruction of gra- 
duates in medicine, in those parts of their exercises in which 
the Latin language is employed. In this situation he was the 
contemporary and rival of the celebrated Dr. Brown, whom he 
resembled in the particulars of his history, as well as in the lead- 
ing features of his character. The office of assistant-teacher in 
the High School being vacant, it was as usual filled up by com- 
petition; and in the face of some prejudices, and perhaps of some 
well-founded objections, Mr. Nicol, by superior learning, car 
ried it from aU the other candidates. This office he filled at the 
period of which we speak. 

It is to be lamented, than an acquaintance with the writers 
of Greece and Rome does not always supplj^ an original want of 
taste and coiTectness in manners and conduct ; and where it fails 
of this effect, it sometimes inflames the native pride of temper 
which treats with disdain those delicacies in which it has not 
learnt to excel. It was thus with the fellow-traveller of Burns. 
Formed bj'^ nature in a model of great strength, neither his per- 
son nor his manners had any tincture of taste or elegance : and 
his coarseness was not compensated by that romantic sensibility, 
and those towering flights of imagination, which distinguished 
the conversation of Bm'ns, in the blaze of whose genius all the 
deficiencies of his manners were absorbed and disappeared. 

Mr. Nicol and our poet travelled in a post-chaise, which they 
engaged for the journey ; and passing through the heart of the 
Highlands, stretched northwards, about ten miles beyond Inver- 
ness. There they bent their course eastward, across the island, 
and returned by the shore of the German sea to Edinburgh. In 
the course of this tour, some particulars of which will be found 
in a letter of our bard, they visited a number of remarkable 
scenes, and the imagination of Burns was constantl}' excited by 
the wild and sublime scenery through which he passed. Of this 
several proofs may be found in the poems formerly printed. Of 
the history of one of these poems, the Humble Petition of Bruar 
Water, and of the bard's visit to Athole-house, some particulars 
have been given ; and by the favour of Mr. Walker, of Perth 
then residing in the family of the Duke of Athole, we are ena- 
bled to give the following additional account : — 

" On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of his arrival, (as I 
had been previously acquainted with him,) and I hastened to 
meet him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter 
of introduction, was from home ; but the Duchess, being informed 
of his arrival, gave him an invitation to sup and sleep at Atholo- 



BUENS LEAVES GOEDON CASTLE. 79 

house. He accepted the invitation ; but as the hour of supper 
was at some distance, begged I would in the interval be his guide 
through the grounds. It was already growing dark ; yet the 
softened though faint and uncertain view of their beauties, which 
the moonlight afforded us, seemed exactly suited to the taste of 
his feelings at the time. I had often, like others, experienced 
the pleasures which arise fi'om the sublime or elegant land- 
scape, but I never saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. 
When we reached a rustic hut on the river Tilt, where it was 
overhung by a woody precipice, from which there is a noble 
waterfall, he threw himself on the heathy seat, and gave himself 
up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of ima- 
gination. I cannot help thinking that it might have been here 
that he conceived the idea of the following lines, which he after- 
wards introduced into his poem on Bruar Water, when only 
fancying such a combination of objects as were now present to 
his eye. 

* Or by the reaper's nightly beam, 
Mild, chequering through the trees, 

Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 
Hoarse swelling on the breeze.' 

It was with much difficulty I prevailed on him to quit this 
spot, and to be introduced in proper time to supper. 

" My curiosity was great to see how he would conduct himself 
in company so different from what he had been accustomed to. 
His manner was unembarrassed, plain, and firm. He appeared 
to have complete reliance on his own native good sense for 
directing his behaviour. He seemed at once to perceive and to 
appreciate what was due to the company and to himself, and 
never to forget a proper respect for the separate species of dig- 
nity belonging to each. He did not arrogate conversation, but, 
when led into it, he spoke with ease, propriety, and manliness. 
He tried to exert his abilities, because he knew it was abihty 
alone that gave bim a title to be there. The Duke's fine young 
family attracted much of his admiration ; he drank their healths 
as honest men and honnie lasses, an idea which was much 
applauded by the company, and with which he has very felici- 
tously closed his poem. 

" Next day I took a ride with him through some of the most 
romantic part of that neighbourhood, and was highly gratified 
by his conversation. As a specimen of his happiness of concep- 
tion and strength of expression, I will mention a remark which 
he made on his fellow traveller, who was walking at the time a 
few paces before us. He was a man of a robust but clumsy per- 
son ; and while Burns was expressing to me the value he ente?- 
tained for him on account of his vigorous talents, although they 
were clouded at times by coarseness pf manners ; ' in short,' he 
added, * his mind is like his body — he has a confounded strong 
in-kneed sort of a soul.' 

" Much attention was paid to Bums both before and after the 
Duke's return, of which he was perfectly sensible, without being 
vain ; and at his departure I recommended to him, as the most 



80 LIFE OF BURNS. 

appropriate return lie could make, to write -some descriptive 
verses on any of the scenes with which he had been so much 
delighted. After leaving Bhiir, he, by the Duke's advice, visited 
the Falls of Bruar, and in a lew days 1 received a letter from 
Inverness, with the verses enclosed. 

It appears that the impression made by our poet on the noble 
family of Athole, was in a high degree favourable; it is 
certain he was charmed with the reception he received from 
them, and he often mentioned the two da3S he spent at Athole- 
house as among the happiest of his life. He was warmly invited 
to prolong his stay, but sacriticed his incHnations to his engage- 
ment with Mr. jNicol; which is the more to be regretted, as he 
would otherwise have been introduced to Mr, Dundas (then 
daily expected on a visit to the Duke), a circumstance that might 
have had a favourable inlluence on Burns's future fortunes. At 
Athole-house he met, for the first time, Mr. Graham of Fintry, 
to whom he was afterwards indebted for his office in the 
Excise. 

The letters and poems which he addressed to Mr. Graham 
bear testimony to his sensibility, and justify the supposition, 
that he would not have been deficient in gratitude had he been 
elevated to a situation better suited to his disposition and to his 
talents. 

A few days after leaving Blair of Athole, our poet and his 
fellow-traveller amved at Fochabers. In the course of the 
preceding winter, Burns had been introduced to the Duchess of 
Gordon at Edinburgh, and presuming on this acquaintance, he' 
proceeded to Gordon Castle, leaving Mr. Nicol at the inn in the 
village. At the castle our poet was received with the utmost 
hospitality and kindness, and the family being about to sit down 
to dinner, he was invited to take his place at the table as a 
matter of course. This invitation he accepted, and after drink- 
ing a few glasses of wine, he rose up, and proposed to withdraw. 
On being pressed to stay, he mentioned for the first time his 
engagement with his fellow-traveller ; and his noble host offering 
to send his servant to conduct Mr. Nicol to the castle. Burns 
insisted on undertaking that office himself. He wius, however, ac- 
companied by a gentleman, a particular acquaintance of the duke, 
by whom the invitation was delivered in all the forms.of polite- 
ness. The invitation came too late; the pride of Nicol was 
inflamed into a high degree of passion, by the neglect which lie 
had already suffered. He had ordered the horses to be put to 
the carriage, being determined to proceed on his journey alone ; 
and they found him parading the streets of Fochabers, before 
the door of the inn, venting his anger on the postillion, for the 
slowness with which he obeyed his commands. As no explana- 
tion nor entreaty could change the purpose of his fellow-tra- 
veller, our poet was reduced to the necessity of separating from 
him entirely, or of instantly proceeding with him' on their jour- 
ney. He chose tiie last of these alternatives ; and seating him- 
seli" beside NicoT m the post-chaise, with mortitication and regret, 
he turned his bacK on Gordon Castle, where he had promised 
himself some happy days. Sensible, however of the great kind- 



BURNS LEAVES GORDON CASTLE. 81 

noss of the noble family, he made the best return in his powe^ 
by the following poem: — 

" Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains 

Glowing here on golden sands. 
There commix'd with foulest stains 

From tjTanny's empurpled bands « 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 

The banks by Castle Gordon. 

Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 

Helpless wretches sold to toii, 
Or the ruthless native's way. 

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil; 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave ; 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 

The storms by Castle Gordon. 

Wildly here, without control. 
Nature reigns, and rules the whole; 

In that sober pensive mood 
Dearest to the feehng soul. 

She plants the forest, pours the flood 
Life's poor day Fll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 

By bonnie Castle Gordon. 

Bums remained at Edinburgh during the greater part of the 
winter of 1787-8, and again entered into the society and dissipa- 
tion of that metropolis. It appears that on the 31st December 
he attended a meeting to celebrate the birth-day of the lineal 
descendant of the Scottish race of kings, the late unfortunate 
Prince Charles Edward. Whatever might have been the wish 
or purpose of the original institutors of this annual meeting, 
there is no reason to suppose that the gentlemen of whom it was 
at this timer composed, were not perfectly loyal to the king on 
the throne. It is not to be conceived that they entertained any 
hope of, any wish for, the restoration of the House of Stuart; 
but over their sparkling wine they indulged the generous feelings 
which the recollection of fallen greatness is calculated to inspire, 
and commemorated the heroic valour which strove to sustain it 
in vain — ^valour worthy of a nobler cause, and a happier fortune. 
6 



81 LIFS OF BUEIfS. 

On this occasion our bard took upon himself the office of a poet- 
laureate, and produced an ode, which, though deficient in the 
complicated rhythm and polished versification that such com- 
positions require, might on a fair competition, where energy of 
feeling and of expression were alone in question, hav ewon the 
butt of Malmsey from the real laureate of that day. 
The following extracts may serve as a specimen :— 

# # 4f: • 

** False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore : 

We solemnise this sorrowing natal day, 
To prove our loyal truth — we can no more; 

And owning heaven's mysterious away, 
Submissive low, adore. 

Ye honoured mighty dead 
Who nobly perished in the glorious cause. 
Your king, your country, and her laws ! 

From great Dundee, who smiling victory led, 
And feU a martyr in her arms, 
(What hearrt of northern ice but warms ?) 

To bold Balmerino's undying name, 
Whose soul of fire, lighted at heaven's high 

flame. 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes 
claim. 

Nor unrevenged your fate shall be. 

It only lags the fatal hour. 
Your blood shall, with incessant cry, 

Awake at last th' unsparing power. 
As from the cliff, with thundering course. 

The snowy ruin smokes along. 
With doubling speed and gathering force. 

Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in 
the vale ! 

So vengeance '* * * 

In relating the incidents ot our poet's life in Edinburgh, we 
ought to have mentioned the sentiments of respect and sjinpa- 
thy with which he traced out the grave of his predecessor 
Fergusson, over whose ashes, in the Cannongate churchyard, he 
obtained leave to erect a humble monument, which will be 
viewed by reflecting minds with no common interest, and which 
will awake in the bosom of kindred genius many a high emotion. 
Neither should we pass over the continued friendship he 
experienced from a poet then living, th^ amiable and accom- 
plished Blacklock. To his encouraging advice it was owing 



AVOWED MARRIAGE OF BURNS. 83 

(as already appeared,) that Bums, instead of emigrating to 
the West Indies, repaired to Edinburgh. He received him there 
with all the ardour of affectionate admiration — he eagerly 
introduced him to the respectable circle of his friends — he con- 
sulted his interest — he blazoned his fame — he lavished upon 
him all the kindness of a generous and feeling heart, into which 
nothing selfish or envious ever found admittance. Among the 
friends to whom he introduced Burns, was Mr. Ramsay of 
Ochtertyre, to whom our poet paid a visit in the autumn of 
(1787) October, at his delightful retirement in the neighbourhood 
of Stirling, and on the banks of the Teith. Of this visit we 
have the following particulars : — 

"I have been in the company of many men of genius" says 
Mr. Ramsay, " some of them poets ; but never witnessed such 
flashes of intellectual brightness as from him, the impulse of the 
moment, sparks of celestial fire ! I never was more delighted, 
therefore, than with his company for two days, t^te-a-t^te. In 
a mixed company I should have made little of him ; for, in the 
gamester's phrase, he did not always know when to play off and 
when to play on. * * * I not only proposed to him the 
writing of a play similar to the Gentle Shepherd, qualem decet 
esse sororemy but Scottish Georgies, a subject which Thompson 
has by no means exhausted in his Seasons. What beautiful 
landscapes of rural Hfe and manners might not have been 
expected from a pencil so faithful and forcible as his, which 
could have exhibited scenes as familiar and interesting as those 
in the Gentle Shepherd, which every one who knows our swains 
in their unadulterated state, instantly recognises as true to 
nature. But to have executed either of these plans, steadiness 
and abstraction from company were wanting, not talents. 
When I asked him whether the Edinburgh literati had mended 
his poems by their critcisms ; ' Sir.' said he, * these gentlemen 
remind me of some spinsters in my country, who spin their 
thread so fine that it is neither fit for weft nor woof.* He said 
he had not changed a word, except one, to please Dr. Blair." 

Having now settled with his publisher, Mr. Creech, in Feb- 
ruary 1788, Burns found himself master of nearly five hundred 
pounds, after discharging all his expens*. Two hundred pounds 
ne immediately advanced to his brother Gilbert, who had taken 
upon himself the support of their aged mother, and was strug- 
gHng vrith many difficulties in the farm of Mossgiel. With the 
remainder of this sum, and some farther eventual profits from 
his poems, he determined on settling himself for life in the 
occupation of agriculture, and took from Mr. Miller of Dalswin- 
ton, the farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the river Nith, six 
miles above Dumfries, on which he entered at Whit-Sunday, 
1788. Having been previously recommended to the Board of 
Excise, his name had been put on the list of candidates for the 
humble office of a ganger or exciseman ; and he immediately 
applied to acquiring the information necessary for filling that 
office, when the honourable board might judge it proper to 
employ him. He expected to be called into service in the 
district in which his farm was situated, and vainly hoped to 



84 LIFE 07 BUBNS. 

unite with success the labours of the farmer with the duties of 
the exciseman. 

When Bums had in this manner arranged his plans for 
futurity, his generous heart turned to the object of his most 
ardent attachment, and, listening to no considerations but those 
of honour and affection, he joined with her in a public declara- 
tion of marriage, thus legahsing their union, and rendering it 
permanent for hfe. 

Before Bums was known in Edinburgh, a specimen of his 
poetry had recommended him to Mr. Miller of Balswinton. 
Understanding that he intended to' resume the life of a farmer, 
Mr. Miller had invited him, in the spring of 1787, to view his 
estate in Nithsdale, offering him at the same time the choice of 
any of his farms out of lease, at such a rent as Bums and his 
friends might judge proper. It was not in the nature of Bums 
to take an undue advantage of the liberahty of Mr. Miller. He 
proceeded in this business, however, wdth more than usual deli- 
beration. Having made choice of the farm of Ellisland, he 
employed two of his friends, skilled in the value of land, to 
examine it, and with their approbation, offered a rent to Mr. 
Miller, which was immediately accepted. It was not convenient 
for Mrs. Burns to remove immediately from Ayrshire, and our 
poet therefore took up his residence alone at ElHsland, to prepare 
for the reception of his wife and children, who joined him 
towards the end of the year. 

[Dr. Currie omits all allusion to the circumstances which led 
to a permanent union between Burns and his Jean. That the 
mind of the poet, notwithstanding all past irritation, and various 
entanglements with other beauties, was never altogether ahen- 
ated from her, is evident ; but up to June 1787, when he first 
returned from Edinburgh to Maucliline, he certainly did not 
entertain any self-avowed notion of ever again renewing his 
acquaintance with her. It was in this state of his feehngs, that, 
one day, soon after his return from Edinburgh, when meeting 
some friends over a glass at John Dow's tavern, close to the 
residence of his once fondly-loved mistress, he chanced to encoun- 
ter her in the court behind the inn, and was immediately 
inflamed with all his former affection. Their correspondence 
was renewed — was attended with its former results — and, 
towards the end of the year, when the poet was fixed helplessly 
in Edinburgh by a bruised limb, her shame becoming apparent 
to her parents, she was turned out of doors, and would have 
been utterly destitute, if she had not obtained shelter from a 
relation in the village of Ardrossan. Jean was once more deli- 
vered of twins— girls — on the 3rd of March, 1788 : the infants 
died a few days after their birth. In a letter of that date to 
Mr. R. Ainslie, written from Mauchline, Burns says — " I fo\md 
Jean banished, forlorn, destitute, andfriendless : I have reconciled 
her to her fate, and I have reconciled her to her mother." Soon 
after, he seems to have formed the resolution of overlooking all 
dishonouring circumstances in her past history, and making 
her really his own for life. On the 7th of April, we find him 
writing to Miss Chalmers, evidently with allusion to this resolu- 



AVCWED MA.EEIA.GE CF BUENS. 85 

tion :— ^< 1 fea^re lately made seme sacrifices, for which, 'w&re I 
vwa voce with you to paint the situation and recount tho 
circiimstances, ycu would applaiid me." And then, on the 28th, 
in. a letter to Smith, we see the resohition has been virtually 
acted upon. " To kt yen a httleinto tlie secrets of my psricra- 
aium, there is, you must knew, & certain clean-hmbed, handsome, 
bewitching young hcssey of yeur acquainta.nce, to whom I have 
lately given a matrimonial title to my corpus. * * I intend 
te present Mrs. Burns with a printed shawl, an article of which 
I dare say you have variety : 'tis my first present to her since I 
irrevocably called her mine. "* * Mrs. Burns ('tis only her 
private designation), presents her best compHments to you." 
He tells Ainslie, May 26, that the title is now avowed to tba 
world — ^a sufficient legal proof ef marriage in Scetland. Ulti- 
mately, on the 3rd of August, ^s we learn from the session books, 
the poet and Jean were openly married; when Burns, being 
informed that it was customary for tlie bridegroom, in such cases, 
to bestow something on the poor of the parish, gave a guinea 
fer that purpose. The c^emony teok place in Dew's tavern, 
unsanctioned by the lady's father, who never, to the day of the 
poet's death, would treat hing. as a friend ; even Gavin Hamilton, 
from respect for the feehngs of Armour, decHned being, 
present. It was not till the ensuing wintea: that Mrs, Burns 
foined her husband at Ellisland — their only child Robert follow- 
ifig her in the subsequent spring.] 

The sit^.ation in which Burns now found himself was calculated 
to awaken -reflection. The different steps he had of late taken 
were in their nature highlj" important, and might be said to 
have, in some measure, fixed his destiny. He- had become a 
husband and a father ; he had engaged in the management of 
a considerable fj^m, a difficult and laborious undertaking ; in 
his success the happiness cf his family was involved. It was 
time, therefore, to abajiden the gaiety and dissipation of which 
he had been too much enamoured ; to pond^ seriously on the 
past, and to fc^'m virtuous resolutions respecting the future. 
That such was actually the state of his mind, the foUewing extract 
ft?om his common-place book may bear witness : — 

** Ellisla/nd, Sunday, l^tk June, 1788. 

** This is iK>w the third day that I have been in this country. 
* Lwd, what is man ! ' What a busthng little bundle of passions, 
appetites, ideas, and fancies ! And what a capricious kind of 
existence he has here ! * * There is indeed an alsewh^?e, 
where, as Thompson says, virlyae sole survives. 

*Tcll us, y-e dead: 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secrcft. 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be; 

A little time 

Will make us wise as you are, and as close.* 

^ I am such a coward in life, so tired of the service, that f 
would aknost «t any time, with Milton's Adam, 'gladly lay 



80 l:^FE C9 BUEwa. 

me in my mother's lap, and be at peace.' But a wife and chil- 
dren bind me to struggle with the stream, till some sudd&n 
Bquall shall overset tlie silly vessel, or, in the listless return of 
years, its awn craziness reduce it to a wreck. Farewell now to 
those giddy follies, those varnished vices, which thcugli half 
sanctified by the bewitching levity of wit and humour, are at 
best but thriftless idling with the precious current of existence ; 
nay, often poiBoning the whole, that, like the plains of Jericho", 
the water is nouaht and the ground harreny and nothing short 
of a supernaturally gifted Elisha can ever after heal the evils. 

" Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles me hardest to carff, 
if virtue and religion were to be anyiihing with me but names, 
was what in a few seasons I must have resolved on ; in my 
present situation it was absolutely necessary. Humanity, 
generosity, honest pride of character, justice to my own happi<- 
ness in after life, so far as it could depend (whish it surely will 
a great deal) on internal peace ; all these join thei? warmest 
suffrages, their most powerful solicitations, with a rooted attach- 
ment, to urge the step I have taken. Nor have I any reason on 
her part to repent it. I can fancy how, but have never seen 
where, I could, have made a better choice. Come, then, let 
me act up to my favourite mottOy that glorious i)assag8 ii> 
Young — 

^ Oh reason build resolve. 
That column of true majesty in man I '^ 

Under the impulse of these reflections, Burns immediatery 
engaged in rebuilding the dwelhng-house on his farm, which, iii 
the state he found it, was inadequate to the accommodation of 
his family. On this occasion he himself resumed at times the 
occupation of a labourer, and found neither his strength nor his 
skill impaired. Pleased with surve}^ng t?ie grounds he w^as 
about to cultivate, and with the rearing of a building that should 
give shelter to his wife and children, and, as he fondly hoped, 
to his own grey hairs, sentiments of independence buoyed up 
hia mind, pictures of domestic content and peace, rose on his 
imagination ; and a few days passed away, as he himself informs 
us, the most tranquil, if not the happiest, which he had ever 
experienced". 

It is to be lamented that at this critical period' of his life, our 
poet was without the society of his wife and children. A great 
change had taken place in his situation ; his old habits were 
broken, and the new circumstances in which he was placed were 
calculated to give a new direction to his thoughts and conduct. 
But his application to the cares and labours of his farm was 
interrupted by several visits to his family in Ayrshire ; and as 
the distance was too great for a single day's joirrney, he generally 
spent a night at an inn on the road. On such occasions he 
sometimes fell into company, and forgot the resolutions he had 
formed. In 9r little while, temptation assailed him nearer 
boBoe. 



BURKS ^M THE EK-OISE. 67 

His "Tame naturally drew upon him the attention of his 
neighbours, and he soon formed a general acquaintance in the 
di-trict in which ho lived. The public voice had now been pro- 
nounced on the subject of his talents^ the reception he liaa met 
with in Edinburgh had given him >the currency which fashion 
feestows; he had surmounted tbe prejudices arising from his 
iiumble birth, and he was received, at the table of the gentlemen 
of Nithsdale with welcome, \vith kindness, and even with 
respect. Their social pai^ties too often seduced him from his 
•rustic labours and his rustic fare, overthrew the unsteady fabrie 
of his resolutions, and inflamed those propensities which temper- 
ance might have weakened, and prudence ultimately suppressed. 
It was not long, therefore, before Burns began to view his farm 
with dislike and despondence, if not with disgust. 

Unfortunately, he had for several years looked to -an office in 
ithe Excise ^ts a certain means of livelihood, should his other 
expectations fail. As has already been mentioned, he had been 
recommended to the Board of Excise, and had received the 
instruction necessary for such a situation. He now applied to 
he employed; and by the interest of Mr. Graham of Fintry, 
was appointed exciseman, or, iis is vulgarly called, ganger, of 
the district in which he lived. His farm was after this in a 
great measure abandoned to servants, while he betook himself 
to the duties of his new appointment. 

He might, indeed, still be seen in the spring, directing his 
plough, a labour in which he excelled; or with. a white sheet, 
containing his seed-corn, slung across his shoulders, striding 
with measured steps along his turned-up furrows, and scattering 
the grain in the earth. .But his farm no longer .occupied the 
principal part of his care or thoughts. It was not at EUisland 
fehat he was now in general to be found. Mounted on horseback, 
this high-minded poet was pursuing the defaulters-of the revenue 
among the hills and vales of JN^ithsdale, his roving eye wander- 
ing over the charms of nature, and muttering his wayward 
fcmcies as he moved along. 

" I had an adventure with him in 179Q," says Mr. Ramsey of 
Ochtertyre, in a letter to t^e editor, " when passing through 
Dumfriesshire, on a tour to the south, with Dr. Stewart of Luss. 
Seeing him pass quickly ne^r Closebm^n, I said to my companion, 
* That is Bujcns,' On coming to the inn the hostler told us he 
would be back in a few hours to grant permits ; that where he 
^met with anything seizable be was no better than any other 
guager; in everything else, that he was perfectly a gentleman. 
After leaving a note to be^ dehvered to him on his return, I pro- 
<»eded to 'his house, being curious to see his Jean, &c. I was 
much pleased with his iu:or Sahina quaUs, and the poet's 
modest mansian, so unlike the habitation of ordinary rustics. 
ha. the evening he suddenly bounced in upon us, and said, as he 
entered, ' I come, to use the words of Shakspeare, stewed in 
haste J In fact, h e had ridden incredibly fast after receiving 
tny note. We fell into conversation directly, and soon got into 
the mare magnum of poetry. He told me that he had now 
•gotten a^tory for .a drama, which he was to call Rob Macque- 



89 LIFE OP Buays. 

ehan's Elshon, from a poprJar storj* of Robert Bruce "belag 
defeated ou the water of Caern, when the heel of his boot having 
loosened in his flight, he applied to Robert Macquechan to fit 
it ; who, to make sure, ran his awl nine inches up the king's 
heel. We were now going on at a great rate, when IMr. S — —— 
popped in his head, which put a stop to our discourse, which had 
become very interesting. Yet in a little while it was resumed; 
and such was the force and versatility of the bard^s genius, that 
he made the tears run down Mr. S— - — 's cheeks, albeit unused 
to the poetic strain. * -^ ^ * From that time we met no 
more, and I was grieved at the reports of him afterwards. Poor 
Burns ! we shall hardly ever see his like again. He was, in 
truth, a sort of comet in literature, irregular in its motions, 
which did not do good proportioned to the blaze of light which 
it displayed." 

In the summer of 1791,. two Ei^lish gentlenoen, who had- 
before met with him in Edanburgh, paid a visit to him at Ellis- 
land. On calling at the house they were informed that he had 
walked out on the banks of the river ; and, dismounting from 
their iorses, they proceeded in search of him. On a rock that 
proJ3cted into the stream, they saw a man employed in angling, 
of a singular appearance. He had a cap made of fox's skin on 
his head,, a loose great coat fixed round him by a belt, from 
which depended an enormous H%hland broadsword. It was 
Burns. He received them with great cordiality, and asked 
them to share his humble dinner — an invitation which they 
accepted. On the table they found boiled beef, with vegetable* 
and barley broth, after the manner of Scotland, of which they 
partook heartily. After dinner the bard told them ingenuously 
that he had no wine to offer them, nothing better than Highland 
whisky, a bottle of which Mrs. Bums set on the bcardl H« 
produced at the same time his punch-bowl made of Inverasy 
marble ; and mixing the spirit and water and sugar, filled their 
glasses and invited them to drink. The travellers were in haste, 
and, besides, the flavour of the whisky to their stdhron palates 
was scarcely tolerable ; but the generous poet offered them his 
best, and his ardent hospitality they found it impossible to 
resist. Burns was in his happiest mood, and the charms of his 
conversation were altogether fascinating. He ranged over a 
great variety of topics, illuminating whatever he touched. He 
related the tales of his infancy and his youth ; he recited some 
erf the gayest and some of the tenderest of Ins poems ; in the 
wildest of his strains of mirth he threw in some touches of 
melancholy, and spread ojound him the electric emotions of his 
powerful mind. The Highland whisky improved in its flavour; 
the marble bowl was again and again emptied and replenished; 
the guests of our poet forgot the flight of time, and the dictates 
of prudence ; at the hour of midniglit they lost their wa}/ in 
returning to IXimfries, and could scarcely distinguish it whea 
assisted by the morning's^dawn. 

^ Besides his duties in the Excise, and his social pleasures^ other 
circumstances interfered with the atteiitiori of Burns to his farm* 
He engaged in the formation of a society for purchasing and 



BURNS IN THE EXCISE. 89 

circulating Ijooks among the farmers of his neighbcrarhood, of 
which he undertook the management ; and he occupied himself 
occasionally in composing songs for the musical werk of Mr. 
Jolmson, then in the course of publication. These engagements, 
useful and hono^irabb in themselves, contrikited, no doubt, 
to the abstraction of his thoughts from i\\e business of agri- 
culture. 

The consequences may be easily imagined. K'^withstandiRg 
the uniform prudence aoid good nmnagemecit of Mrs, Burns, and 
though his rent was moderate and reasonable, our poet found it 
convenient, if not necessary, to resign his farm to Mr. Miller, 
after having occupied it three years and a half. His office iu 
the Excise had originally produced about fifty pounds per annum, 
Kaving acquitted himself to the satisfaction of the board, he had 
been appointed to a new distiict, the emoluments of which arose 
to about seventy pounds per annum. Hoping to support him- 
self and his family on this humble income till promotion should 
reach him, he disposed of hk stock and of his crop on Eliisland 
by pubhc auction, and removed to a small house which he had 
taken in Dijmiries, about the end of the year 1791. 

Hitheito Bums, though addicted to excess in social parties, 
had abstained from the habitual use of strong hquors, and his 
constitution had not stiffered any permanent injury from the 
rrregulaTities of his conduct. In Dumfries, temptations to the 
sin that so easily beset him c<5ntinually presented themselves • 
and his irregularities grew by degrees into habits. These tempt- 
ations unhappily occurred -during his engag-ements in the busi- 
ness of his cwElice, as well as during his h<xirs of relaxation ; and 
though he clearly foresaAV the consequences of yielding to them, 
his appeftites and sensations, wliich -could not prevent the dictates 
of his jttdgm^it, finall}' triumphed over the powers of his will. 
Yet this victory was not obtained without many obstinate strug- 
gles, and at times temperance and virtue seemed to have 
obtained the mastery. Besides his engagements in the Excise, 
and the society into whitli they led, many circumstances con- 
tributed to the melancholy fate of Burns. His great oelebrity 
made him an object of interest and curiosity to strangers, and 
tew persons of cultivated minds passed through Dumfries without 
attempting to see our poet, and to enjoy tli^ pleasure of his con- 
\ ^sation. As he could not i^ecoive them under his own humble 
roof, thes'e interviews passed at the inns of the town, and often 
terminated in those excesses which Burns sometimes provoked, 
and was seldom alile to resist. And among the inhabitants of 
Dumfr^s and its vicinity, there were never wanting persons to 
share his social pleasures ; to lead oi* accompany him to the 
♦■avern ; to partake in the wildest sallies of his wit ; to witness 
che strength and the degradation of his genius. 

Still, however, he cultivated the society of persons of taste 
and respectability, and in their company' could impose on himself 
the restraints of temperance and decorum. Nor was his muse 
dormant. In tlie four years which he lived at Dumfries, he pro- 
duced many of his beautiful lyrias, though it doe-s not appear 
that he attempted any poem of considerable length. During 

I 3 



PO IirE C?P EURX&. 

this time he made several excursions into the neighbounng 
country, of one of which, through Galloway, an account is 
preserved in a letter of Mr. Syme, written soon after ; which, 
as it gives an animated picture of him, by a correct and 
masterly hand, we shall present to the reader. 

** I got Bums a grey Highland shelty to ride on. We dmed 
the first day, 27th July, 1793, at Glendenwynes of Parton 
a beautiful situation on the banks of the Dee. In the evening 
we walked oat, and ascended a gentle eminence, from whieh we 
had as line a view of Alpine scenery as can well be imagined. 
A delightful soft evening shewed all its wilder as well as its 
grander graces. Immediately opposite and within a mile of us, 
we saw Airds, a charming romantic place, where dwelt Low, 
the author of Mary weep no more for me. This was classical 
ground for Burns. He viewed 'the highest hill which rises o'er 
the source of Dee ; ' and would have staid till ' the passing 
spirit ' had appeared, had we not resolved to reach Kenmure that 
night. We arrived as Mr. and Mrs. Gordon were sitting down 
to supper. 

" Here is a genuine baron's seat. The castle, an old building, 
stands on a large natural moat. In front the river Ken winds 
for several miles through the most fertile and beautiful Ao?w, 
till it expands into a lake twelve miles long, the banks of which, 
on the south, present a fine and soft landscape of green knolls, 
natural wood, and here and there a grey rock. On the north, 
the aspect is great, w^ld, and I may say, tremendous. In short, 
I can scarcely conceive a scene more terribly romantic than the 
castle of Kenmure. Burns thinks so highly of it, that he medi- 
tates a description of it in poetry. Indeed, I believe he has 
begun the work. We spent three days with Mr. Gordon, whose 
polished hospitahty is of an original and endearing kind. Mrs. 
Gordon's lap-dog. Echo, was dead. She would have an epitapli 
for him. Several had been made. Burns was asked for one. 
This was setting Hercules to his distaff. He disliked the sub- 
ject ; but, to please the lady, he would try. Here is what b« 
produced : — 

" In wood and wild, ye warbling throng. 

Your heavy loss deplore ! 
Now half extinct your powers of song 

Sweet Echo is no more 

Ye jarring screeching things around, 

Scream your discordant joys ! 
Now half your din of tuneless song 

With Echo silent lies." 

" We left Kenmure and went to Gatehouse. I took him the 
moor road, where savage and desolate regions extended wide 
around. The sky was sympathetic with the wretchedness of 
tho soil ; it became lowering and dark. The hollow winds 
Bigbed, the lightnings gleamed, the thunder rolled. Tho poet 



ST. MAET*S ISLE. 91 

enjoyed the awful scene ; he spoke not a word, but seemed wrapt 
in meditation. In a little while the rain began to fall ; it poured 
in floods upon us. For three hours did the wild elements 
rumble their bellyful upon our defenceless heads. Oh! oh! 
'twas foul. We got utterly wet; and, to revenge ourselves, 
Burns insisted at Gatehouse on our getting utterly drunk. 

" From Gatehouse, we went next day to Kirkcudbright, 
through a line coimtry. But here I must tell you that Burns 
had got a pair 2i{ jemmy boots for the journey, which had been 
thoroughly wet, and which had been dried in such manner that 
it was not possible to g«t them on again. The brawny poet 
tried force, and tore them to shreds. A whiffling vexation of 
this sort is more trying to the temper than a serious calamity. 
We were going to St. Mary's Isle, the seat of the Earl of Sel- 
kirk, and the forlorn Burns was discomfited at the thought of 
his ruined boots. A sick stomach and a head-ache lent their 
aid, and the man of verse was quite accahle. I attempted to 
reason with him. Mercy on us ! how he did fume and rage ! 
Nothing could reinstate him in temper. I tried various expe- 
dients, and at last hit on one that succeeded. I showed him the 
house of '^ ^ * * , across the bay of Wigton. Against 
# # * # ^ with whom he was offended, he expectorated his 
spleen, and regained a most agreeable temper. He was in a 
most epigrammatic humour indeed! He afterwards fell on 
humbler game. There is one ^ * * * # whom he does 
not love. He had a passing blow at him. 

* When deceased, to the devil went down, 

'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown ; 
Thj'- fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall wear never, 
1 grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever.' 

" Well, I am to bring you to Kirkcudbright along with our 
poet, without boots. I carried the torn ruins across my saddle 
in spite of his fulminations, and in contempt of appearances ; 
and, what is more. Lord Selkirk carried them in his coach to 
Dumfries. He insisted they were worth mending. 

" We reached Kirkcudbright about one o'clock. I had pro- 
mised that we should dine with one of the first men in our 
country, J. Dalzell; but Burns was in a wild obstreperous 
humour, and swore he would not dine where he should be under 
the smallest restraint. We prevailed, therefore, on Mr. Dalzell 
to dine with us at the inn, and had a very agreeable party. In 
the evening we set out for St. Mary's Isle. Robert had not 
absolutely regained the mildness of good temper, audit occurred 
once or twice to him, as he rode along, that St. Mary's Isle was 
the seat of a Lord ; yet that Lord was not an aristocrat, at least 
in his sense of the word. We arrived about eight o'clock, as 
the family were at tea and cofiee. St. Mary's Isle is one of the 
most delightful places that can, in my opinion, be formed by 
the assemblage of every soft, but not tame, object, which con- 
stitutes natural and cultivated beauty. But not to dwell on its 

temal graces, let me tell you that we found all the ladies of 



92 LIFE OP BUBJN'8. 

the family (all beautiful,) at home, and some strangers ; and, 
among others, wlio but Urbani ! The Italian sang us many 
Scottish songs, accompanied with instrumental music. The two 
young ladies of Selkirk sang also. We had the song of Lord 
Gregory, which I asked for, to have an opportunity of ealling on 
Burns to recite 7u5 ballad to that tune. He did recite it; and 
such was the effect, that a dead silence ensued. It was such a 
silence as a mind of feeling naturally preserves whea it is touched 
with that enthusiasm which banishes every other thought but 
the contemplation and indulgence of the sympathy produced. 
Burns's Lord Gregory is, in my opinion, a most beautiful and 
affecting ballad The fastidious critic may, perhaps, say, some 
of the sentiments and imagery are of too elevated a kind for such 
a style of composition ; for instance, ' Thou bolt of Heaven that 
passest by;' and, 'Ye mustering thunder,' &c; but this is a 
cold-blooded objection, which will be said rather thsinfelt 

" We enjoyed a most happy evening at Lord Selkirk's. We 
had, in every sense of the word, a feast, in which our minds 
and our senses were equally gratified. The poet was delighted 
with his company, and acquitted himself to admiration. The 
lion that had raged so violently in the morning was now as mild 
and gentle as a lamb. Next day we returned to Dumfries, and 
so ends our peregrination. I told you that in the midst of the 
storm, on the wilds of Kenmure, Burns was wrapt in medita- 
tion. What do you think he was about ? He was charging the 
English army, along with Bruce, at Bannockburn. He was 
engaged in the same manner on our ride home from St. Mary's 
Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next day he produced me the 
following address of Bruce to his troops, and gave me a copy for 
DalzeU:— 

* Scots who hae wi' Wallace bled,* &c. 

Burns had entertained hopes of promotion in the Excise; but 
circumstances occurred which retarded their fulfilment, and 
which in his own mind destro^'ed all expectation of their being 
ever fulfilled. The extraordinary events that ushered in the 
Revolution of France, interested the feelings and excited the 
hopes of men in every corner of Europe. Prejudice and tyranny 
seemed about to disappear from among men, and the day-star 
of reason to rise upon a benighted world. In the dawn of this 
beautiful morning, the genius of French freedom appeared on 
our southern horizon with the couTitenance of an angel, })ut 
speedily assumed the features of a demon, and vanished in a 
shower of blood. 

Though previously a Jacobite and Ca avalier, Burns had shared 
in the original hopes entertained of this astonishing revolution 
by ardent and benevolent minds. The novelty and the hazard 
of the attempt meditated by the First or Constituent Assembly, 
served rather, it is probable, to recommend it to his daring tem- 
per ; and the mifettered scope proposed to be given to every kind 
of talent, was doubtless gratifying to the feelings of conscious 
but indignant genius. Burns foresaw not the mighty ruin that 
was to be the immediate conse(iuence of an enterprise, which, on 



BUBNSS POLITICS. 93 

its commencement, promised so much happiness to the humcan 
race. And even after the career of guilt and blood commenced, 
he could not immediately, it may be presumed, withdraw his 
partial gaze from a people who had so lately breathed the senti- 
ments of universal peace and benignity, or obliterate in his bosom 
the pictures of hope and happiness to which those sentiments 
had given birth. Under these impressions, he did not always 
conduct himself with the circumspection and prudence which 
his dependent situation seemed to demand. He engaged, indeed, 
in no popular associations, so common at the time of which we 
speak, but in company he did not conceal his opinions of public 
measures, or of the reforms required in the practice of our 
government; and sometimes, in his social and unguarded. mo- 
ments, he uttered them with a wild and unjustifiable vehemence. 
Information of this was given to the Board of Excise, with the 
exaggeration so general in such cases. A superior officer in that 
department was authorised to enquire into his conduct. Burns 
defended himself in a letter addressed to one of the board, (Mr. 
Graham of Fintry,) written with great independence of spirit, 
and Avith more than his accustomed eloquence. The officer 
appointed to enquire into his conduct gave a favourable report. 
His steady friend, Mr. Graham of Fintry, interposed his good 
offices in his behalf, and the imprudent guager was suffered to 
retain his situation, but given to understand that his promotion 
was defeired, and must depend on his future behaviour. 

This circumstance made a deep impression on the mind of 
Burns. Fame exaggerated his misconduct, and represented him 
as actually dismissed from his office ; and this report induced a 
gentleman of much respectabihty (Mr.Erskine of Marr,) to pro- 
pose a subscription in his favour. The offer was refused by our 
poet in a letter of great elevation of sentiment, in which he gives 
an account of the whole of this transaction, and defends himself 
from the imputation of disloyal sentiments on the one hand, and 
on the other, from the charge of having made submissions, for 
the sake of his office, unworthy of his character. 

" The partiality of my countrymen," he observes, " has 
brought me forward as a man of genius, and has given me a cha- 
racter to support. In the poet I have avowed manly and inde- 
pendent sentiments, which I hope have been found in the man. 
Reasons of no less weight than the support of a wife and chil- 
dren, have pointed out my present occupation as the only eHgible 
hue of life within my reach. Still my honest fame is my dearest 
concern, and a thousand times have I trembled at the idea of 
the degrading epithets that malice or misrepresentation may 
affix to my name. Often in blasting anticipation have I listened 
to some future hackney scribbler, with the heavy mahce of savage 
stupidity, exultingly asserting that Burns, notwithstanding the 
fanfaronade of independence to be found in his works, and after 
having been held up to public view, and to pubhc estimation, 
as a man of some genius, yet, quite destitute of resources within 
himself to support his borrowed dignity, dwindled into a paltry 
exciseman, and slunk out the rest of his insignificant existence 
in the meanest of pursuits, and among the lowest of mankind. 



94 LIFE OP BURNS. 

" In your illastrious hands, Sir, permit me to lodge my strong 
iisavowal and defiance of such slanderous falsehoods. Bums 
was a poor man from his birth, and an exciseman by necessity ; 
but — I will say it— the sterling of his honest worth poverty 
could not debase, and his independent British spirit oppression 
might bend, but could not subdue." 

It was one of the last acts of his Hfe to copy this letter into 
his book of manuscripts, accompanied by some additional 
remarks on the same subject. It is not surprising, that at a 
season of universal alarm for the safety of the constitution, the 
indiscreet expressions of a man so p owerful as Burns should 
have attracted notice. The times certainly required extraordi- 
nary vigilance in those entrusted with the administration of the 
government, and to ensure the safety of the constitution was 
doubtless their first duty. Yet generous minds will lament 
that their measures of precaution should have robbed the imagi- 
nation of our poet of the last prop on which his hopes of 
independence rested ; and by embittering his peace, have aggra- 
vated those excesses which were to conduct him to an untimely 
grave. 

Though the vehemence of Burns's temper, increased as it 
often was by stimulating liquors, might lead him into many 
improper and unguarded expressions, there seems no reason to 
doubt his attachment to our mixed form of government. In 
his common-place book, where he could have no temptation to 
disguise, are the following sentiments : — Whatever might be my 
sentiments of BepubHcs, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I ever 
abjured the idea. A constitution, which, in its original princi- 
ples, experience has proved to be every way fitted for our 
happiness, it would be insanity to abandon for an untried 
visionary theory." In conformity to these sentiments, when 
the pressing nature of pubHc affairs called, in 1795, for a general 
arming of the people. Burns appeared in the ranks of the Dum- 
fries Volunteers, and employed his poetical talents in stimulating 
their patriotism ; and at this season of alarm he brought forward 
the following hymn, worthy of the Grecian muse, when Greece 
was most conspicuous for genius and valour :— 

Scene. — A field of Battle — Timje of the day, evening. — The 
wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to 
ioin in the following song : — 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye 
skies, 

Now gay with the bright setting sun ! 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run ! 
Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe. 

Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know 

No terrors hast thou for the brave ! 



SUSNS S POLITICS. do 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 
In the field of proud honour — our swords in our 
hands, 

Our king and our country to save — ■ 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

Oh ! who would not rest with the brave ! 

Though by nature of an athletic form, Burns had in his con- 
Btitution the pecuHarities and the delicacies that belong to the 
temperament of genius. He was liable, from a very early 
period of his life, to that interruption in the process of digestion, 
which arises from deep and anxious thought, and which is 
sometimes the effect, and sometimes the cause, of depression of 
spirits. Connected with this disorder of the stomach, there was 
a disposition to headache, affecting more especially the temples 
and eye-balls, and frequently accompanied by violent and 
irregular movements of the heart. Endowed bj^ nature with 
great sensibility of nerves, Burns was, in his corporeal, as well 
as in his mental system, liable to inordinate impressions — to 
fever of body as well as of mind. This predisposition to disease, 
which strict temperance in diet, regular exercise, and sound sleep, 
might have subdued, habits of a very different nature stren^h- 
ened and inflamed. Perpetually stimulated by alcohol in one 
or other of its various forms, the inordinate actions of the 
circulating system became at length habitual; the process of 
nutrition was unable to supply the waste, and the powers of life 
began to fail. Upwards of a year before his death, there was an 
evident decline in our poet's personal appearance, and though 
his appetite continued unimpaired, he was himself sensible that 
his constitution was sinking. In his moments of thought he 
reflected with the deepest regret on his fatal progress, clearly 
foreseeing the goal towards which he was hastening, without 
the strength of mind necessary to stop, or even to slacken, his 
course. His temper now became more imtable and gloomy ; 
he fled from himself into society, and often of the lowest kind. 
And in such company, that part of the convivial scene in which 
wine increases sensibihty and excites benevolence, was hurried 
over, to reach the succeeding part, over which uncontrolled 
passion generally presided. He who suffers the pollution of 
inebriation, how shall he escape other pollution ? But let us 
refrain from the mention of errors over which delicacy and 
humanity draw the veil. 

[A similar view of the latter days of Bums is taken'by his 
biographers, Heron, Irving, Walker, and, in general, by all who 
wrote soon after his death. Mr. Lockhart, suppported by 
attestations from Gilbert Bums, James Gray, then rector ot 
the grammar-school of Dumfries, and Mr. Findlater, the poet's 
superior officer, gives a more favourable representation. The 
letter of Gray presents so interesting a picture of Bums in all 
respects, th^-t we cannot resist the temptation to connect it with 
the text of Currie : — 



IIPE OF BUENB, 

" I love Dr. CurriB^ but I love the memory of Burns more, 
and no cousideration shall deter me from a bold declaration of 
the truth. The poet of the Cotter's Saturday Night, who felt 
all the charms of the humble piety and virtue which he sang, is 
charged (in Dr. Currie's narrative) with vices which would 
reduce him to a level with the most degraded of his species. As 
I knew him during that period of his life emphatically called 
his evil days^ X a77i enabled to speak from my own observation. 
It is not ray intention to extenuate his eiTors, because they 
were combined with genius ; on that account, they were only 
the more dangerous, because the more seductive, and deserve 
the more severe reprehension ; but I shall Hkemse claim that 
nothing be said in malice even against him. .... It came 
under my own view professionally, that he superintended the 
education of his childi'en with a degree of care that I have never 
seen surpassed by any parent in any rank of life whatever. In 
the bosom of his family he spent many a delightful hour in 
directing the studies of his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talents. 
I have frequently found him explaining to this youth, then not 
more than nine yeo^rs of age, the Enghsh poets from Shaks- 
peare to Gray, or storing his mind with examples of heroic 
virtue, as they Uve in the pages of our most celebrated historians, 
I would ask an^^ person of common candour, if emplojTuents like 
these are consistent with kabitiml drtfr.kermess ? It is not 
denied that he sometimes mingled with society unworthy of 
him. He was of a social and convivial nature. He was courted 
by aU. classes of men for the fascinating powers of his conversa- 
tion, but over his social scene uncontrolled passion never presided. 
Over the social bowl his wit flashed for hours together, penetrat- 
ing whatever it struck, Hke the fire from heaven ; but even in 
the hour of thoughtless gaiety and merriment, I never knew it 
tainted by indecency. It was playful or caustic by turns, 
following an allusion through all its windings ; astonishing by 
its rapidity, or amusing by its wildj)riginahty, and grotesque, 
yet natural combinations, but never, within my observation, 
disgusting by its grossness. In his morning hours, I never saw 
him like one suffering from the eflects of last night's intemper- 
ance. He appeared then clear and unclouded. He was the 
eloquent advocate of humanity, justice, and political freedom. 
From his paintings, virtue appeared more lovely, and piety 
assumed a more celestial mien. While his keen eye was pregnant 
with fancy and feehng, and his voice attuned to the very passion 
which he wished to communicate, it would hardly have been 
possible to conceive any being more interesting and dehghtful. 
I may likewise add, that, to the very end of his life, reading was 
his favourite amusement. I have never kno\vn any man so 
intimately acquainted with the elegant English authors. He 
seemed to have the poets by heart. The prose authors he could 
quote either in their own words, or clothe tlieir ideas in language 
more beautiful than their own. Nor was there ever any decay 
in any of the powers of his mind. To the last day of his life, his 
judgment, his memory, his imagination, were fresh and vigorous 
as when he composed the CottGr's Saturday Night. The truth 



HAJ3ITS OP IBTTOXICATIOir. 



97 



is, that Bums was seldom intoxicated. The drunkard scon 
becomes besotted, and is shunned even by the convivial. Had 
he been so, he could not long have continued the idol of every 
party. It will be freely confessed, that the hour of enjoyment 
was often prolonged beyond the limit marked by prudence ; but 
what man will venture to affirm, that in situations where he was 
conscious of giving so much pleasure, he could at all times have 
listened to her voice ? 

" The men with whom he generally associated were not of the 
lowest order. He numbered among his intimate friends many 
of the most respectable inhabitants of Dumfries and the vicinity. 
Several of those wtre attached to him by ties that the hand of 
calumny, busy as it was, could never snap asunder. They 
admired the poet for his genius, and loved the man for the can- 
dour, generosity, and kindness of his nature. His early friends 
clung to him, through good and bad report, with a zeal and fide- 
lity that proved their disbelief of the malicious stories circulated 
to his disadvantage. Among them were some of the most dis- 
tinguished characters in this country, and not a few females 
eminent for delicacy, taste, and genius. They w^ere proud of 
his friendship, and cherished him to the last moment of his 
existence. He was endeared to them even by his misfortunes, 
and they still retain for his memory that affectionate veneration 
which virtue alone inspires." 

In the midst of all his wanderings. Burns met nothing in his 
domestic circle but gentleness and forgiveness, except in the 
gnawings of his own r%.morse. He acknowledged his transgres- 
sions to the wife of his bosom, promised amendment, and again 
and again received pardon for his offences. But as the strength 
of his body decayed, his resolution became feebler, and habit 
acquired predominating strength. 

From October 1795 to the January following, an accidental 
complaint confined him to the house. A few days after he began 
to go abroad, he dined at a tavern and returned home about 
three o'clock in a very cold morning, benumbed and intoxicated. 
This was followed by an attpx^k of rheumatism, which confined 
him about a w^eek. His appetite now began to fail ; his hand 
shook, and his voice faltered on any exertion or emotion. His 
pulse became weaker and more rapid, and pain in the larger 
joints, and in the hands and feet, deprived him of the enjoyment 
of refreshing sleep. Too much dejected in his spirits, and too 
well aware of his real situation to entertain hopes of recovery, he 
was ever musing on the approaching desolation of his family, 
and his spirits sank into a imiform gloom. 

It was hoped by some of his friends, that if he could live 
through the months of spring, the succeeding season might 
restore him. But they were disappointed. The genial beams 
of the sun infused no vigour into his languid fraij^e ; the summer 
wind blew upon him, but produced no refreshment. About the 
latter end of June he was advised to go into the country, and, im- 
patient of medical advice, as well as of every species of control, 
he determined for himself to try the effects of bathing in the sea. 
For this purpose he took up his residence at Brow, in Annan- 
7 K 



98 



LIFE OP BURNS. 



dale, alxjut tec miles east of Dumfries, on the shore of the 
Sol way Firth. 

It happened that at that time a lady with whom he had been 
connected in friendship by the o}Tnpathies of kindred genius, was 
residing in the immediate neighbourhood. Being infoi'med of 
his arrival, she invited him to dinner, and sent her carriage for 
him to the cottage where he lodged, as he was unable to walk. 
" I was struck," says this lady (in a confidential letter to a friend 
written soon after,) " with his appearance on entering the room. 
The stamp of death was imprinted on his features. He seemed 
already touching the brink of eternity. His first salutation waa, 
* Well, madam, have you any commands for the other world ? * 
I replied, it seemed a doubtful case which of us should be there 
Boonest, and that I hoped he would yet live to write my epitaph. 
(I was then in a bad state of health.) He looked in my face 
with an air of great kindness, and expressed his concern at seeing 
me look so ill, with his accustomed sensibility. At table he ate 
little or nothing, and he complained of having entirely lost the 
tone of his stomach. We had a long and serious conversation 
about his present situation, and the approaching termination of 
all his earthly prospects. He spoke of his death without any 
of the ostentation of philosophy, but, with firmness as well as 
feehng, as an event likely to happen very soon, and which gave 
him concern chiefly from leaving his four children so young and 
unprotected, and his wife in so interesting a situation — in hourly 
expectation of lying in of a fifth. He mentioned, with seeming 
pride and satisfaction, the promising genius of his eldest son, 
and the flattering marks of approbation he had received from his 
teachers, and dwelt particularly on his hopes of that boy's future 
conduct and merit. His anxiety for his family seemed to hang 
heavy upon him, and the more perhaps from the reflection that 
he had not done them all the justice he was so well quahfied to 
do. Passing from this subject, he shewed great concern about 
the care of his literary fame, and particularly the publication of 
his posthumous works. He said he was well aware that his 
death would occasion some noise, and that every scrap of his 
writing would be revived against him to the injury of his future 
reputation ; that letters and verses written with unguarded and 
improper freedom, and which he earnestly wished to have buried 
in obHvion, would be handed about by idle vanity or malevo- 
lence, when no dread of his resentment would restrain them, or 
prevent the censures of shrill-tongued maHce, or the insidious 
sarcasms of envy, from pouring forth aU their venom to blast his 
fame. 

" He lamented that he had written many epigrams on persons 
against whom he entertained no enmity, and whose characters 
he should be sorry to wound ; and many indifl'erent poetical 
pieces, which ^e feared would now, with all their imperfections 
on their head, be thrust upon the world. On this account he 
deeply regretted having deferred to put his papers in a state jf 
arrangement, as he was now quite incapable of the exertion." 
The lady goes on to mention many other topics of a private 
nature on which he spoke. " The conversation," she adds. 



ILLNESS AKD DEATH OP BUENS. 99 

*' was kept up with great evenness and animation on his side. 
I had seldom seen his mind greater or more coDected. There 
was frequently a* considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies, 
and they would probably have had a greater share, had not the 
concern and dejection I could not disguise damped the spirit of 
pleasantry he seemed not unwilling to indulge. 

" We parted about sunset on the evening of that day (the 5th 
of July, 1796) : the next day I saw him again, and we parted to 
meet no more ! " 

At the first Burns imagined bathing in the sea had been of 
benefit to him : the pains in his limbs were relieved ; but this 
was immediately followed by a new attack of fever. When 
brought back to his own house in Dumfries, on the 18th of July, 
he was no longer able to stand upright. At this time a tremor 
pervaded his frame : his tongue was parched, and his mind sank 
into delirium, when not roused by conversation. On the second 
and third day the fever increased, and his strength diminished. 
On the fourth, the sufferings of this great but iU-fated genius 
were terminated; and a life was closed, in which virtue and 
passion had been in perpetual variance. 

The death of Burns made a strong and general impression 
on all who had interested themselves in his character, and 
especially on the inhabitants of the town and county in which 
he had spent the latter years of his life. Flagrant as his follies 
and errors had been, they had not deprived him of the respect 
and regard entertained for the extraordinary powers of his genius, 
and the generous quahties ot his heart. The Gentlemen- Volun- 
teers of Dumfries determined to bury their illustrious associate 
with military honours, and every preparation was made to render 
this last service solemn and impressive. The Fencible Infantry 
of Angusshire, and the regiment of cavalry of the Cinque Ports, 
at that time quartered in Dumfries, offered their assistance on 
this occasion ; the principal inhabitants of the town and neigh- 
bourhood determined to walk in the funeral procession ; and a 
vast concourse of persons assembled, some of them from a 
considerable distance, to witness the obsequies of the Scottish 
Bard. On the evening of the 2oth of July, the remains of 
Burns were removed from his house to the Town-Hall, and the 
funeral took place on the succeeding day. A party of the 
volunteers, selected to perform the military duty in the church- 
yard, stationed themselves in the front of the procession, with 
their arms reversed ; the main body of the corps surrounded and 
supported the coffin, on which were placed the hat and sword of 
their friend and fellow-soldier : the numerous body of attendants 
ranged themselves in the rear ; while the Fencible regiments of 
infantry and cavalry lined the streets from the Town-Hall to the 
burial-ground in the southern churchyard, a distance of more 
than half a mile. The whole of the procession i^oved forward 
to that sublime and affecting strain of music, the Dead March 
in Saul ; and three vollies fired over his grave marked the return 
of Burns to his parent earth ! The spectacle was in a high 
degree grand and solemn, and accorded with the general senti- 
ments of sympathy and sorrow which the occasion had called forth. 



lofC 



IflO LIFE OF BUENS. 

It was an affecting circumstance, that, on tlie morning of the 
day of her husband's funeral, Mrs. Burns was undergoing the 
pains of labour ; and that during the solemn service we have just 
been describing, the posthumous son of our poet was born. 
This infant boy, who received the name of Maxwell, was not 
destined to a> long Hfe. He has already become an inhabitant 
of the same grave with his celebrated father. The four other 
children of our poet, all sons (the eldest at that time about ten 
years of age), yet survive, and give every promise of prudence 
and virtue that can be expected from their tender years. They 
remain \mder the care of their affectionate mother in Dumfries, 
and are enjoying the means of education which the excellent 
schools of that town afford ; the teachers of which, in their 
conduct to the children of Burns, do themselves great honour. 
On this occasion the name of ]\Ir. Whyte deserves to be parti- 
cularly mentioned, himself a poet as well as a man of science. ^ 

Burns died in great poverty ; but the independence of his 
spirit, and the exemplary prudence of his wife, had preserved 
him from debt. He had received fi*om his poems a clear profit 
of about nine hundred pounds. Of this sum the part expended 
on his library, (which was far from extensive,) and in the hum- 
ble furnitm-e of his house, remained ; and obligations were found 
for two hundred pounds advanced by him to the assistance of 
those to whom he was united by the ties of blood, and still more 
by those of esteem and affection. When it is considered that 
his expenses in Edinburgh, and on his various journies, could not 
be inconsiderable ; that his agricultural undertaking was unsuc- 
cessful ; that his income from the Excise was for some time as 
low as fifty, and never rose to above seventy pounds a-year ; 
that his family was large, and his spirit liberal — no one will be 
surprised that his circumstances were so poor, or that, as his 
health decayed, his proud and feeling heart sank under the secret 
consciousness of indigence, and the apprehensions of absolute 
want. Yet poverty never bent the spirit of Burns to any pecu- 
niary meanness. Neither chicaner}'- nor sordidness ever appeared 
in his conduct. He carried his disregard of money to a blame- 
able excess. Even in the midst of distress he bore himself loftily 
to the world, and received with a jealous reluctance every offer 
of friendly assistance. His printed poems had procured him 
great celebrity, and a just and fair recompense for the latter off- 
springs of his pen might have produced him considerable emolu- 
ment. In the year 1795, the editor of a London newspaper, 
high in its character for literature and independence of senti- 
ment, made a proposal to him that he should furnish them, once 
a- week, with an article for their poetical department, and receive 
from them a recompense of fifty-two guineas per animm ; an 
offer which the pride of genius disdained to accept. Yet he had 
for several years furnished, and was at that time furnishing, 
the Museum of Johnson with his beautiful lyrics, without fee 
or reward, and was obstinately refusing all recompense for his 
assistance to the greater work of Mr. Thoipipson, which the 
justice and generosity of that gentleman was pressing upon him. 

The sense of his poverty, and of the approaching distress oi 



ILLKESS AND DEATH OF BITBNS. 101 

his infant family, pressed heavily on Burns as he lay on the bed 
of death. Yet he alluded to his indigence, at times, with 
something approaching to his wonted gaiety. " What busi- 
ness," said he to Dr. Maxwell, who attended him with the 
utmost zeal, " has a physician to waste his time on me ? I am 
a poor pigeon not worth plucking. Alas ! I have not feathers 
enough upon me to carry me to my grave." And when his 
reason was lost in delirium, his ideas ran in the same melancholy 
train : the horrors of a jail w^ere continually present to his 
troubled imagination, and produced the most affecting exclama- 
tions. 

As for some months previous to his death he had been incapable 
of the duties of his office. Bums dreaded that his salarv should 
be reduced one half, as is usual in such cases. His full emolu- 
ments were, however, continued to him by the kindness of Mr. 
Stobie, a young expectant in the Excise, who performed the 
duties of his office without fee or reward ; and Mr. Graham of 
Fintrj^, hearing of his illness, though unacquainted with its 
dangerous nature, made an offer of his assistance towards 
procuring him the means of preserving his health. Whatever 
might be the faults of Burns, ingratitude was not one of the 
» number. Amongst his manuscripts, various proofs are found 
of the sense he entertained of Mr. Graham's friendship, which 
delicacy towards that gentleman has induced us to suppress ; 
and on this last occasion there is no doubt that his heart over- 
flowed towards him, though he had no longer the power of 
expressing his feelings. 

On the death of Burns, the inh-^bitants of Dumfries and its 
neighbourhood opened a subscription for the support of his wife 
and family : and Mr. Miller, Mr. M' Murdo, Dr. Maxwell, 
Mr. Syne, and Mr. Cunningham, gentlemen of the first respect- 
ability, became trustees for the application of the money to its 
proper objects. The subscription was extended to other parts 
of Scotland, and of England also, particularly London and 
Liverpool. By this means a sum was raised amounting to 
seven hundred pounds ; and thus the widow and children were 
rescued fi-om immediate distress, and the most melancholy of 
the forebodings of Burns happily disappointed. It is true, this 
sum, though equal to their present support, is insufficient to 
secure them from future penury. Their hope in regard to 
futurity depends on the favourable reception of these volumes 
from the public at large, in the promoting of which the candour 
and humanity of the reader may induce him to lend his assist- 
ance. 

Bm-ns, as has already been mentioned, was nearly five feet ten 
inches in height, and of a form that indicated agility as well as 
strength. His well-raised forehead, shaded with black curling 
hair, indicated extensive capacity. His eyes were large, dark, 
full of ardour and intelligence. His face was well formed, and 
his countenance uncommonly interesting and expressive. His 
mode of dressing was often slovenly, and a certain fulness and 
bend in his shoulders, characteristic of his original profession, 
disgmsed in some decree the natural symmetry and elegance of 

K 3 



A 



103 LIFE OF BUENS. 

his form. The external appearance of Burns was most strikingly 
indicative of the character of his mind. On a first view, his 
physiognomy had a certain air of coarseness, mingled, however, 
with an expression of deep penetration, and of calm thoughtful- 
ness, approaching to melancholy. There appeared in his first 
manner and address, perfect ease and self-possession, but a stem 
and almost supercilious elevation, not indeed, incompatible with 
openness and affability, which, however, bespoke a mind 
conscious of superior talents. Strangers that supposed them- 
selves approaching an Ayrshire peasant who could make rhymes, 
and to whom their notice was an honour, found themselves 
speedily overawed by the presence of a man who bore himself 
with dignity, and who possessed a singular power of correcting 
forwardiiess and of repelling intrusion. But though jealous of 
the respect due to himself, Burns never enforced it where he saw 
it was willingly paid ; and, though inaccessible to the approaches 
of pride, he was open to every advance of kindness and of bene- 
volence. His dark and haughty countenance easily relaxed 
into a look of good will, of pity, or of tenderness ; and, as the 
various emotions succeeded each other in his mind, assumed 
with equal ease the expression of the broadest humour, of the 
most extravagant mirth, of the deepest melancholy, or of the 
most sublime emotion. The tones of his voice happily corres- 
ponded with the expression of his features, and with the feeHngs 
of his mind. When to these endowments are added a rapid 
and distinct apprehension, a most powerful understanding, and 
a happy command of language — of strength as well as briUiancy 
of expression — we shall be able to account for the extraordinary 
attractions of his conversation — for the sorcery which in his 
social parties he seemed to exert on all around him. In the 
company of women this sorcery was more especially apparent. 
Their presence charmed the fiend of melancholy in his bosom, 
and awoke his happiest feelings ; it excited the powers of his 
fancy, as well as the tenderness of his heart; and, by restraining 
the vehemence and exuberance of his language, at times gave to 
his manners the impression of taste, and even of elegance, which 
in the company of men they seldom possessed. This influence 
was doubtless reciprocal. A Scottish lady, accv.stomed to the 
best society, declared with characteristic ndviete, that no man's 
conversation ever carried her so completely off her feet as 
that of Burns ; and an English lady, familiarly acquainted with 
several of the most distinguished characters of the present times, 
assured the editor, that in the happiest of his social hours there 
was a charm about Burns which she had never seen equalled. 
This charm arose not more from the power than the versatility 
of his genius. No langour could be felt in the society of a 
man who passed at pleasure from grave to gay, from the ludi- 
crous to the pathetic, from the simple to the subhme; who 
wielded all his faculties with equal strength and ease, and never 
failed to impress the offspring* of his fancy with tike stamp of 
his understanding. 

This indeed, is to represent Burns in his happiest phasis. In 
large and mixed parties he was often silent and dark, sometimes 



CHAEACTEEISTICS OP BURNS. 103 

fierce and overbearing ; he was jealous of the proud man's scorn,, 
jealous to an extreme of the insolence of wealth, and prone to 
avenge, even on its innocent possessor, the partiality of fortune. 
By nature kind, brave, sincere, and in a singular degree com- 
passionate, he was on the other hand proud, irascible, and 
vindictive. His virtues and his failings had their origin in the 
extraordinary sensibiHty of his mind, and equally partook of the 
chills and glows of sentiment. His friendships were liable to 
interruption from jealousy or disgust, and his enmities died 
away under the influence of pity or self-accusation. His under- 
standing was equal to the other powers of his mind, and his 
deliberate opinions were singularly candid and just ; but, hke 
other men of great and irregular genius, the opinions which he 
dehvered in conversation were often the offspring of temporary 
feelings and widely different from the calm decisions of his 
judgment. This was not merely true respecting the characters 
of others, but in regard to some of the most important points of 
human speculation. 

On no subject did he give a more striking proof of the strength 
of his understanding, than in the correct estimate he formed of 
himself. He knew his own failings ; he predicted their 
consequence; the melancholy foreboding was never long 
absent from his mind; yet his passions canied him down the 
stream of error, and swept him over the precipice he saw 
directly in his course. The fatal defect in his character lay in 
the comparative weakness of his volition, that superior faculty 
of the mind, which governing the conduct according to the 
dictates of the understanding, alone entitles it to be denominated 
rational; which is the parent of fortitude, patience, and self- 
denial : which, by regulating and combining human exertions, 
may be said to have effected all that is great in the works of 
man, in Uterature, in science, or on the face of nature. The 
oC/Cupations of a poet are not calculated to strengthen the 
governing powers of the mind, or to weaken that sensibility 
which requires perpetual control, since it gives birth to the 
vehemence of passion as well as to the higher powers of imagina- 
tion. Unfortunatelj^ the favourite occupations of genius ar(\ 
calculated to increase all its peculiarities ; to nourish that lofty 
pride which disdains the littleness of prudence, and the restric- 
tions of order : and, by indulgence, to increase that sensibility 
which, in the present form of our existence, is scarcely compatible 
with peace or happiness, even when accompanied with the 
choicest gifts of fortune ! 

It is observed by one who was a friend and associate of Burns, 
and who has contemplated and explained the system of animated 
nature, that no sentient being, with mental powers greatly 
superior to those of men, could possibly Hve and be happy in this 
world. "If such a being really existed," continues he, "his 
misery would be extreme. With senses more delicate and refined; 
with perceptions more acute and penetrating; with taste so 
exquisite that the objects around him would by no means gratit^^ 
it ; obliged to feed on nourishment too gross for his frame — he 
must be born only to be miserable, and the continuation of his 



104 LIFE OF BURNS. 

existence would be utterly impossible. Even in our present 
condition, the sameness and the insipidity of objects and pursuits, 
the lutinty of pleasure, and the intinite sources of excruciating 
pain, are supported with great ditiiculty by cultivated and relined 
minds. Increase our sensibilities, continue the same objects and 
situation, and no man could bear to live." 

Thus it appears, that our powers of sensation, as well as all 
our other powers, are adapted to the scene of our existence ; that 
they are limited in mercy, as well as in wisdom. 

The speculations of Mr. Smellieare not to be considered as the 
dreams of a theorist ; they were probabl}' founded on sad experi- 
ence. The being he supposes " with senses more delicate and 
refined, with perceptions more acute and penetrating," is to be 
found in real life. He is of the temperament of genius, and 
perhaps a poet. Is there, then, no remedy for this inordinate 
sensibility ? Are there no means by which the happiness of 
one so constituted by nature may be consulted ? Perhaps it 
will be found, that regular and constant occupation, irksome 
though at first it may be, is the true remedy. Occupation, in 
which the powers of the understanding are exercised, will 
diminish the force of external impressions, and keep the imagi- 
nation under restraint. 

That the bent of every man's mind should be followed in his 
education and in his destination in life, is a iiuixim which has 
been often repeated, but which cannot be admitted without 
many restrictions. It may be generally true when applied to 
weak minds, which being capable of Httle, must be encouraged 
and strengthened in the feeble impulses by which that little is 
produced. But where indulgent nature has bestowed her gifts 
with a Hberal hand, the very reverse of this maxim ought 
fi'equently to be the rule of conduct. In minds of a higher 
order, the object of instruction and discipline is very often to 
restrain, rather than to impel ; to curb the impulses of imagina- 
tion, so that the passions also may be kept under control. 

Hence the advantages, even in a moral point of view, of studies 
of a severer nature, which, while they inform the understanding, 
employ the volition, that regulating power of the mind, which, 
like all our other faculties, is strengthened by exercise, and on 
the superiority of which virtue, happiness, and honourable fame, 
are wholly dependent. Hence also the advantage of regular and 
constant apphcation, which aids the voluntary power by the 
produ(;tion of habits so i'.Gcessary to the support of order and 
virtue, and so difficult to be formed in the temperament of genius. 
The man who is so endowed and so regulated, may pursue his 
course with confidence in almost any of the various walks of life 
which choice or accident shall open to him ; and, provided he 
employ the talents he has cultivated, may hope for such imper- 
fect happiness, and such limited success, as are reasonably to bo 
expected from human exertions. 

The preeminence among men, which procures personal respect, 
and which terminates in lasting reputation, is seldom or never 
obtained by the excellence of a single faculty of mind. Experience 
teaches us. that it has been acquired by those only who have 



CXLLBACTEBISTICS 07 BUBITS. 105 

I the comprehension and the energy of general talents, 
and who have regulated theii* application in the line which 
choice, or perhaps accident, may have determined, by the dictates 
of their judgment. Imagination is supposed, and with justice, 
to be the leading faculty of the poet. But what poet has stood 
the test of time by the force of this single faculty ? Who does 
not see that Homer and Shakspeare excelled the rest of their 
species in understanding as weU as in imagination ; that they 
were preeminent in the highest species of knowledge — the 
knowledge of the nature and character of man ? On the other 
hand, the talent of ratiocination is more especially requisite to 
the orator ; but no man ever obtained the palm of oratory, even 
by the highest excellence in this single talent. Who does not 
perceive that Demosthenes and C5icero were not more happy in 
their addresses to the reason than in their appeals to the passions ? 
They knew, that to excite, to agitate, and to delight, are among 
the most potent arts of persuasion ; and they enforced their 
impression on the understanding, by their command of all the 
sympathies of the heart. These observations might be extended 
to other walks of hfe. He who has the faculties to excel in 
poetry, has the faculties which, duly governed, and differently 
directed, might lead to preeminence in other, and, as far as 
respects himself, perhaps in happier destinations. The talents 
necessary to the construction of an IHad, under different dici- 
pline and apphcation, might have led armies to victory, or 
kingdoms to prosperity ; might have wielded the thunder of 
eloquence, or discovered and enlarged the sciences that consti- 
tute the power and improve the condition of our species. Such 
talents are, indeed, rare among the productions of nature, 
and occasions of bringing them into full exertion are rarer still. 
But safe ond salutary occupations may be found for men of 
genius in every direction, while the useful and ornamental arts 
remain to be cultivated, while the sciences remain to be studied 
and to be extended, and principles of science to be appHed to 
the correction and improvement of art. La the temperament of 
sensibility, which is, in truth, the temperament of general talents, 
the principal object of discipHne and instruction is, as has 
already been mentioned, to strengthen the self-command ; and 
this may be promoted by the direction of the studies, more 
effectually, perhaps, than has been generally understood. 

If these observations be founded in truth, they may lead to 
practical consequences of some importance. It has been too 
much the custom to consider the possession of poetical talents 
as excluding the possibiHty of appHcation to the severer branches 
of study, and as, in some degree, incapacitating the possessor 
from attaining those habits, and from bestowing that attention 
which are necessary to success in the details of business, and in 
the engagements of active life. It has been common for persons 
conscious of such talents, to look with a sort of disdain on other 
kinds of intellectual excellence, and to consider themselves as in 
some degree absolved from those rules of prudence by which 
humbler minds are restricted. They are too much disposed to 
abandon themselves to their own sensations, and to suffer life to 
pass away without regular exertion or settled purpose. 



106 LIFE OV BUSNS. 

But though men of genius are generally prone to indolence, with 
them indotence and unhappiness are in a more especial manner 
allied. The unbidden splendours of imagination may, indeed, 
at times irradiate the gloom which inactivity produces; but 
such visions, though bright, are transient, and serve to cast the 
reaUties of Hfe into deeper shade. In bestowing great talents, 
Nature seems very generally to have imposed on the possessor 
the necessity of exertion, if he would escape wretchedness. 
Better for him than sloth, toils the most painful, or adventures 
the most hazardous. Happier to him than idleness were the 
condition of the peasant, earning with incessant labour his scanty 
food ; or that of the sailor, though hanging on the yard-arm, and 
wTesthng with the hurricane. 

These observations might be amply illustrated by the biography 
of men of genius of every denomination, and more especially by 
the biography of the poets. Of this last description of men, few 
seem to have enjoyed the usual portion of happiness that falls 
to the lot of humanity, those excepted who have cultivated 
poetry as an elegant amusement in the hours of relaxation from 
other occupations, or the small number w^ho have engaged with 
success in the greater or more arduous attempts of the muse, in 
which aU the faculties of the mind have been fully and perma- 
nently employed. Even taste, virtue, and comparative 
independence, do not seem capable of bestowing on men of 
genius peace and tranquillity without such occupation as may 
give regular and healthful exercise to the faculties of body and 
mind. The amiable Shenstone has left us the records of his 
imprudence, of his indolence, and of his unhappiness, amidst the 
shades of the Leasowes ; and the virtues, the learning, and the 
genius of Gray, equal to the loftiest attempts of the epic muse, 
failed to procure him in the academic bowers of Cambridge that 
tranquillity and that respect which less fastidiousness of taste, 
and greater constancy and vigour of exertion, would have 
doubtless obtained. 

It is more necessary that men of genius should be aware of 
the importance of self-command, and of exertion, because their 
indolence is peculiarly exposed, not merely to unhappiness, but 
to diseases of mind, and to errors of conduct, which are generally 
fatal. This interesting subject deserves a particular investiga- 
tion ; but we must content ourselves with one or two cursory 
remarks. Belief is sometimes sought from the melancholy of 
indolence in practices which, for a time, soothe and gratify the 
sensations, but which, in the end, involve the suiferer in darker 
gloom. To command the external circumstances by which hap- 
piness is affected is not in human power : but there are various 
substances in nature which operate on the system of the nerves, 
so as to give a fictitious gaiety to the ideas of imagination, and 
to alter the effect of the external impressions which we receive. 
Opium is chiefly employed for this purpose by the disciples of 
Mahomet and the inhabitants of Asia; but alcohol, the principle 
of intoxication in vinous and spirituous liquors, is preferred in 
Europe, and is universally used in the Christian world. Under 
the various wounds to which indolent insensibility is exposed. 



INFUENCES OP MELANCHOLY. 107 

and under the gloomy apprehensions respecting futurity to 
winch it is so often a prey, how strong is the temptation to 
have recourse to an antidote by which the pain of these wounds 
is suspended, by which the lieart is exhihrated, visions of hap- 
piness are excited in the mind, and the forms of external nature 
clothed with new beauty ! 

Elysium opens round 
A pleasing phrenzy buoys the lighten'd soul, 
And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care ; 
And what was difficult, and what was dire, 
Yields to your prowess, and superior stars : 
The happiest you of all that e'er were mad, 
Or are, or shall be, could this folly last. 
But soon your heaven is gone ; a heavier gloom 

Shuts o'er your head. 

« # # 4& « « 

' Morning comes ; your cares return 

With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach well 
May be endur'd — so may the throbbing head ; 
But such a dim dehrium, such a dream 
Involves you ; such a dastardly despair 
Unmans your soul, as maddening Pentheus felt, 
When, baited round Cithaeron's cruel sides. 
He saw two suns and double Thebes ascend." 
Armstrong's Art ofFreserving Health, bk. iv. 1. 163. 

Such are the pleasures and pains of intoxication, as they occur 
in the temperament of sensibility, described by a genuine poet 
with a degree of truth and energy, which nothing but experience 
could have dictated. There are, indeed, some individuals, of 
this temperament on whom wine produces no cheering influence. 
On some, even in very moderate quantities, its eflects are pain- 
fully irritating ; in large draughts it excites dark and melancholy 
ideas; and in draughts still larger, the fierceness of insanity 
itself. Such men are happily exempted from a temptation to 
which experience teaches us the finest dispositions often yield, 
and the influence of which, when strengthened by habit, it is a 
humiliating truth, that the most powerful minds have not been 
able to resist. 

It is the more necessary for men of genius to be on their guard 
against the habitual use of wine, because it is apt to steal on 
them insensibly, and because the temptation to excess usually 
presents itself to them in their social hours, when they are alive 
only to warm and generous emotions, and when prudence and 
moderation are often contemned as selfishness and timidity. 

It is the more necessary for them to guard against excess in 
the use of wine, because on them its eflects are, physically and 
morally, in an especial manner injurious. In proportion to its 
etimulating influence on the system (on which the pleasurable 



108 iriTE OP BURNS. 

sensations depend,) is the debility that ensues — a debility that 
destroys digestion, and terniLnates in habitual fever, dropsy, 
jaundice, paralysis, or insanity. A:? the strength of tlie body 
decays, the voHtion fails; in proportion as tlie sensations are 
soothed and gratitied, the sensibihty increases ; the morbid scn- 
sibiUty is the parent of indolence, because, while it impairs the 
regulating power of the mind, it exaggerates all the obstacles to 
exertion. Activity, perseverance, and self-command, become 
more and more difficult, and the great purposes of utility, 
patriotism, or of honourable ambition, which had occupied the 
imagination, die away in fruitless resolutions, or in feeble efforts. 
To apply these observations to the subject of our memoirs 
would be a useless as well as a painful task. It is indeed a duty 
we owe to the living not to allow our admiration of great genius, 
or even our pity for its unhappy destiny, to conceal or disguise 
its eiTors. But there are sentiments of respect, and even of ten- 
derness, with which this duty should be performed ; there is an 
awful sanctity which invests the mansions of the dead ; and let 
those who moralise over the graves of their contemporaries, 
reflect with humility on their own errors, nor forget how soon 
they may themselves require the candour and sympathy they 
are called upon to bestow* 



•9! .s^ 



THB 



pdml mxh fd ^aM "^mn. 



|to s |0&d Wrb. 



THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 

AN ITKCO MOXJKNl^U* TALE. 

As Mailie, and her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
And owre she warsled in the ditch : 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc he cam dojrtin by. 

Wi* glowering een and lifted ban's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stands ; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended, 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it. 
He gaped wide, but naething spak — 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 

" Oh thou, whose lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
And bear them to my master dear. 

" Tell him if e'er again he keep, 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep. 
Oh bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 
But ca' them out to park or hill. 
And let them wander at their will; 
So may his flock increase, and grow 
To scores o' lambs, and packs o* woo* I 



112 BUENS'S rOETlCAL WOIIKS. 

" Tell him he was a master kin' 
And aye was good to me and mine ; 
And now my dying charge I gie him — 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

" Oh bid him save their harmless lives 
Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers' knives I 
- But gie them guid cow milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel ; 
And tent them duly, e'en and mom, 
Wi' teats o' hay, and npps o* corn. 

" And may they never learn the gaets 
Of other vile wanresfu' pets ; 
To slink through slaps, and reave and steal 
At stacks o' peas, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, hke their great forbears, 
For many a year come through the shears : 
80 wives will gie them bits of bread, 
And bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

" My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir, 
Oh, bid him breed him up wi' care ; 
And if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some havins in his breast ! 

" And warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame; 
And no to rin and wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

" And neist my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep'thee frae a tether string ; 
Ob, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit moorland toop, 
But aye keep mind to moop and meU 
Wi' sheep 0' credit hke thysel. 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breaUi 
I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : 
And when you think upo' your mither. 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, diima fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
And bid him burn this cursed tether, 
And for thy pains thou's get my blether," 
This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
And closed her e'en amang the dead. 



POOS xaixig's elsot. £n 



Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close. 
Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane of liis woes — 
Poor Maiiie's dead ! 

It's no the loss o* warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neibor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him ; 
A long half mile she could descry him : 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran with speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
And could behave hersel' wi' mense; 
ril say't, sue never brak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe. 

Her living image in her yowe, 

Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe^ 

For bits o' bread ; 
And down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 

Wi' towted ket, and hairy hips, 

For her forbears were brought in shipa 

Frae yont the Tweed ; 
A bonnier flesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchaucie thing —^ a rape ! 
It maks guid fellows girn and gape, 

Wi' choking dread : 
And Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape 

For MaiHe dead. 

Oh, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
And wha on Ayr your chanters tune I 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Robin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon— 

His Mailie's dead i 

8 l3 



114 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

A BEOTHER POET. 

January, 1784 

While winds frae off Ben Lomond blaw. 
And bar the doors with driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In hamely westhn jingle. 
While frosty winds hlaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, 
That Hve sa bien and snug : 
I tent less, and want less 

Their roomy fireside ; 
But hanker and canker 
To see their cursed prido. 

It's hardly in a body's power 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And ken na how to wair't ; 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho' we hae little gear. 
We're fit to win our daily bread. 
As lan's we're hale and fier : 
" Mair spier na, no fear na 
Old age ne'er mind a feg. 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only but to beg. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en 

When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin. 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could make us blest ; 
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free fi'ae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba', 
Has aye some cause to smile : 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Ka mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther we can fa'. 

What though, like commoners of air, 
We wander out we know not where, 
But either house or hal' ? 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 115 

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods. 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound 
To see the coming year. 
On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't. 
And sing't when we hae dune. 

It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in making muckle mair ; 
It's no in books ; it's no in lear, 

To mak us truly blest ; 
If happiness hae not her seat 
And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great. 
But never can be blest : 
Nae treasures nor pleasures 

Could make us happy lang j 
The heart aye's the part aye 
That makes us right or wrang. 

Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive through wet and dry, 

Wi' never-ceasing toil; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
WTia scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 
Alas ! how aft, in haughty mood, 

God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else neglecting a' that's guid. 
They riot in excess ! 
Baith careless and fearless 
Of either heaven or hell ! 
Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale. 

Then let us cheerfa' acquiesce, 
Nor make our scanty pleasures lesSj 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortune come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi* some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel : 
They make us see the naked truth. 

The real guid and ill. 



116 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Though losses and crosses 
Be lessons right severe, 

There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'Il find nae other where. 

But tent me, Davie, aoe o' hearts I 

('Cp say aught less wad vvrang the carina, 

And flatt'ry 1 detest,) 
This life has joys for you and I; 
And joys that nches ne'er could buy ; 

And joys the very best. * 

There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover and the frien' ; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 
And I my darling Jean ! 
It wprms me, it charms me, 
To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame ! 

Oh, all ye powers who rule above I 
Oh, Thou, whose very self art love I 
Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood sti-eaming through my hewi 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest. 
Her dear idea brings reHef 
And solace to my breast, 
Thou Being, all-seeing, 

Oh hear my fervent pray'r ! 
Still take her, and make her, 
Thy most peculiar care ! 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ! 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days. 

Had it not been for you I 
Fate still has blest me with a friend. 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing hand, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrilic scene. 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean ! 

Oh how that name inspires my style 
The words come skelpin', rank and fil«- 
Amaist before 1 ken ! 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 117 

The ready measure rins as fine 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin' owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairley het ; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, 
And rin an unco fit : 
Bu tlest then, the beast then 
Should rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now, 
His sweaty, wizen'd hide. 



MuB in % inl 



Oh Prince ! Oh chief of many throned pow'rs, 
That led th' embattled seraphim to war. — 

MILTOir. 

Oh thou ! whatever title suit the, 
Auld Homie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie, 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches ! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
And let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a deil, 
To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me, 

And hear us squeel I 

Great; is thy pow'r, and great thy fame; 
Far ken'd and noted is thy name ; 
And tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
And faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame. 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion. 
For prey a' holes and corners tryin' ; 
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin 

Tirlin' the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend granny say. 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'^-er's way 

Wi' eldritch croon. 



118 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

When twilight did my granny summon, 
To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin*, 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries comin', 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae drearj^, windy, winter night, 

The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 

Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright 

Ayont the lough j 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight 

Wi' waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 

Each bristl'd hair stood hke a stake, 

When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick — quaick-^ 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, 

On whistling ^ving& 

Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags. 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags. 
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed j 
And in kirkyards renew their leagues 

Owi'e howkit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain. 
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh, the yellow treasure's taen 

By witching skill ; 
And dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen 

As yell's the bill. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord. 
And float the jinghn' icy boord, 
Then water kelpies haunt the foord. 

By your direction, '> ^ . 

And 'nighted trav'llers are aUur'd • '"^-t^ 

To their destruction. 

And aft your moss-traversing spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is : 
The bleezin', curst, mischieveus monkey* 

Delude his eyes. 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is. 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When mason's mystic word and grip 
In storms and tempests raise you up. 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest brother ye wad whip 

Affstraught to belli 





ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 


119 




liang syne, in Edin's bonnie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were paired. 
And all the soul of love they shar'd, 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry sward, 

In shady bow'r : 






Then you, ye aula snec-drawing dog ! 

Ye came to Paradise incog, 

And played on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa !) 
And gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maistruin'da'. 


1 


>'■ . 


D*ye niind that day, when in a bizz, ^ 

Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz, 

Ye did present your smoutie phiz S 

'Mang better folk, 
And sklented on the man of Uzz 

Your spitefu' joke ? 




And how ne gat him i* your thrall, 
And brak him out o' house and hall, 
While scabs and botches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw. 
And lows'd his ill-tongued, wicked scawl. 

Was warst ava ? 






But a' your doings to rehearse. 
Your wily snares and fetchin' fierce. 
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, 

Down to this time. 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Earse, 

In prose or rhyme. 






And now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin* 
A certain bardie's rantin', drinkin', 
Some luckless hour will send him linki»' 

To your black pit ; 
But faith ! he'U turn a corner jinkin*, 

And cheat you yet. 






But, faxe you weel, auld Nickie-ben I 
Oh wad ye tak a thought and men' 1 
Ye aibUns might — I dinna ken— 

StiU hae a stake — 
Fm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev^n for your sake! 

9 


\ 



120 buen's poetical wobkb. 

to liis Mi J&m M^^it 

ON GIVING HEE THE ACCUSTOMED EIPP OF COEN TO 
HANSEL IN THE NEW TEAE. 

A GIJID New-year I wish tliee^ Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie ; 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, aiid knaggie, 

I've seen the day 
Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, 
And thy old hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonny gray ; 
He should been tight that daur't to raise tbee 

Ance a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly, buirdly, steeve and swank, 
And set weel down a shapely shank 
♦ As e'er tread yird; 

And could hae flown out-owre a stank, 
Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine-and-twenty year. 
Sin' thou was my guid father's mere ; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear 

And fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel- won gear. 

And thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, and funnie, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, and cannie, 

And unco sonsie ; 

That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride. 
When 5^e bure hame my bouny bride; 
And sweet and gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide. 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble^ 
And wiutle like a saumont-coble. 
That day ye was a j inker noble. 

For lieels and win' ! 
And ran them till they a' did wauble, ^ 

Far, far behin' 1 



NEW-YEAR MORNIISTG SALUTATION. 121 

When tbou and I were young -and skeigh, 

At stable-meftls at fairs were dreigh, 

How thou wad prance, and snore, and skdgh 

And tak the road.! 
Town's l»dies raii, and stood abeigh, 

And ca't tho mad. 

When thou was corn't, and I was mellow, 
We took the road aye hke a swallow * 
At iHTOOses thou had ne'er a fellow 

For pith and speed; 
But^ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whate'er tiiou gaed, 

The sma' droop-mmpl't, hunter, cattle. 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettl«^ 

And gar't them whaizle : 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattk 

O' saugh or hazle. 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan'. 

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 

Aft thee and I, in aucht hours' gaun. 

In guid March weather, 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside om* ban' 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, and fech't, and flisMtp 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae wiskit, 
And spread abi'eed tlxy well-iiiled brisket, 

Wi' pith and pow'r, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket. 

And slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, and snaws were de^ 
And threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Abood the timmer ; 
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sle^ 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou neyer reestit: 
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it : 
Thou never lap, and sten't and breastit> 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a* ; 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nmst : 
They drew me thretteen pimd and twa. 

The vera wai'st. 



122 BTJENS'S POETICAL WOEK^. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought^ 
And \vi' the weary warl' fought ! 
And monie an. anxious day I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld trusty servan', 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin' 
And thy auld days may end instarvin'' 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart, 111 reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither; 
Wc'U toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether. 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



Upon that night, when fairies light. 

On CassiHs Downans dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursiers prance; 
Or for Coleon the route is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon*s pale beams ; 
There, up the cove, to stray and rov© 

Amang the rocks and streams 
To sport that night. 

Amang the bonny, winding banks, 

Where Doon rins, whimplin', clear. 
Where Bruce ance rul'd the martial ranki^ 

And shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks. 

Together did convene. 
To bum their nits, and pou their stocks^ 

And hand their Halloween 

Fu' blythe that night. 

The lasses feat, and cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe. 

Hearts leal, and warm, and kin* : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten. 
Some unco blate, and some wi* gabi. 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin*. 
Whiles fast at night. 



HALLOWEEN. 123 

Then first and foremost, thro' the kaH 

Their stocks maun a' be s'ought ance ; 
They steek their een, and graip, and wal^ 

For mnckle anes and straught anea. 
Poor hav'rel WiU fell aff the drift, 

And wander'd through the bow-kail, 
And pouU for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sac bow't that night. 

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee-things, todlin*, rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther : 
And gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
%ne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care, they've placed theoa 
To lie that mghi. 

^he lasses straw frae 'mang them a* 

To pou tSeir stalks o' corn ; 
But Rab slips out, and jinks about, 

Behiut the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard and fast ; 

Loud skirl' d a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kuitthn' in the fause-house 
Wi' him that night. 

The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nit* 

Are round and round divided. 
And mony lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

And burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa wi' saucy pride 

And jump out-owre the chimlie 
Fu' high that night 

Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna teU ; 
But this is Jock, and this is me, 

Sne says in to hersel : 
He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him. 

As they waud n^ver mair part ; 
fill, faff ! he started up the lum, 

And Jean had e'en a sair heact 
To see't that night. 

Poor WiUiewi' his bow-kail runt, 

Was brunt wi' primsie MaUie 
And Mary, nae doubt, took the dnml^ 

To be compared to Willie. 



124 BURNS^S POETICAL -VN'OKKS. 

Mall's nit lap out wi* pridefii' ffing. 
And her ain fit it burnt it ; 

Wliile Willie lap, and swoor, by jing', 
'Twas just the way he wanted 
To be that night. 

Nell had the fause-house in her mm* 

She pits hersel and Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join. 

Till wliite in ase they're sobbin*. 
Nell's heart was dancin' at the view. 

She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 
Rob, stowlins^ prie'd her bonny moa^ 

Fu' cozie in the neux for't, 

Unseen that night* 

But Merran sat behint their backs,. 

Her thoughts on Andi*ew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin' at their cracky 

And slips out by hersel' : 
She through the yard the nearest taks^ 

And to the kiln she goes then. 
And darklins graipit for the banks, 

And in the bhie-clue throws theii 
Right fear't that night. 

And aye she win't, and aye she swafe 

I wat 'she made nae jaukin' ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d ! but she was quakin' I 
But whether 'twas the deil himself 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en'. 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin' 

To spier that night. 
Wee Jenny to her granny says, 

" Will ye go wi' me, granny ? 
I'll eat the apple at the glass, 

I gat frae uncle Johnny : " 
She fuif 't her pipe wi' sic a lunt,. 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin'. 
She notic't na, aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 

" Ye little skelpie-limmer's fac^ I 

I daur you try sic sporting'. 
As seek the foul thief onie place. 

For him to spae your fortune : 
Na doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

Great cause ye had to fear it ; 
For monie a ane has gotten a firigW^ 

And bvcd and died deleeret. 
On sic a nlsht. 



llALLOWEIi>I. i25 

Ae hairst-afere the Slierra-moor— 

I mind't as well's yestreen, 
Twas a gilpey, then I'm sure 

I was na past fyfteen : 
The simmer had been cauld and wjrf^ 

And stuff was unco' green ; 
And aye a raiitin' kirn we gat. 
And just on Halloween 

It fell that night. ^ 

Our stibble rig was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever sturdy fallow : 
He's sin' gat Eppie Sim w' wean. 

That lived in Achmacalla : 
He gat hemp-seed, I mind it weeJ, 

And he miade unco light o't ; 
But mony a day was by himsei'^ 

He was sae sairly frighted 
That very night." 

Then xip gat fetchin' Jamie Fleck, 

And he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could sow hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense. 
The auld guidman mught down the pock. 

And out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bade him slip frae 'mang the folk' 

Somatime when nae ane see'd. him, 
And try'd that night. 

He marclies through amang the stacks 

Tho' he was something stm-tiu ; 
The graip he for a harrow taks, 

And hauls at his curpin ; 
And every now and then he says, 

" Hemp-seed I saw thee, 
And her that is to be my lass. 

Come after me, and draw thee 
As fast this night." 

He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' marcli. 

To k€ep his courage cheery' ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fley'd and eerie ; 
Till presently he hears a squeak. 

And then a grane and gruntle : 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

And tumbl'd wi' o wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
And young and auld cam rinnin' out, 

And hear the sad narration : 

k8 



123 BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 
Or croucliie Merran Humphie, 

Till, stop — she trotted through them a'— » 
And wha was it but grumphie 
Asteer that night ! 

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen. 

To win three wechts o' naething ; 
But for to n\eet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits. 

And twa red-cheekit apples, 
To watch,. w^hile for the barn she sets. 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 
That vera night. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw. 

And owre the threshold venturs ; 
But first on Sawny gies a ca', 

Sj^ne bauldly in she enters : 
A ratton rattled up the wa'. 

And she cried, " L — d, preserve her ! *" 
And ran thro' midden hole and a', 

And pray'd with zeal and fervour, 
Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy't out, Will, wi' sair advice; 

They heclit him some fine braw ane; 
It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin' ; 
He taks a surly old moss oak 

For some black, grousome carlin' ; 
And loot a winze, and drew a stroke. 

Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' 
Aff's nieves that night. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kittlin ; 
But, och ! that night, amang the shawB, 

She got a fearfu' setthn' ! 
She thro' the w^ins, and by the cairn, 

And owre the hill gaed scrievin. 
Where three lairds' lands met at a burn, 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in. 
Was bent that night. 

Whyles owTe a linn the burnie plays, 

As through the glen it whimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays ; 

Wliyles in a wiel it dimpl't : 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cooyit underneath the braes, 

Below the sprjeadiug hazel. 
Unseen that night. 






A WINTER NIGHT. 12? 

Amang the brackens, on the brae, 

Between her and the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up and gae a croon : 
Poor Leezy's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Near lav'rock height she jnmpit, 
But inist a fit, and in the pool 

Out-ovvre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three are ranged, 
And every time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin' Mars' year did desire. 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire. 

In wTath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs and friendly cracks, 

I wat they did nae weary : 
And unco tales, and funny jokes. 

Their sports were cheap and cheery ; 
Till butter'd sons, wi' fragrant lunt. 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt. 

They parted aff careerin' 

Fu' blythe that night. 



% a^iDfer 3aig{it. 



Poor naked wretches ! wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm I 
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, 
Your looped and windowed raggedncss defend you 
From seasons such as these ? Shakspbabb. 

When bitiug Boreas, fell and doure. 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r; 
When Phoebus gies a short-lived glow'r 

Far south the Hft, 
Dim-darkening thro' the liaky show'r, 

Or wliirling drift ; 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was rocked. 
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths upchocked, 

Wild eddying swirl. 
Or through the mining outlet booked, 

Down headlong hurl. 



128 BUKNS'S POETICAL AVOKKS. 

Listening, tlie doors and winnocks rattJOi 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war, 
And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, 

Beneath a scaur. 

Hk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That in the merry months o' spring, 
Dehghted me to hear thee sing. 

What comes o' thee. 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

And close thy e'e ? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 

Lone from your savage homes exil'd. 

The blood-stain 'd roost and sheep-cot spoil'd 

My heart forgets. 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain 

Slow, solemn, stole : — 

*' Blow, blow, ye winds, w4th heavier gust * 
And freeze, thou bitter -biting frost ! 
Descend, ye chiUj-, smothering snows ! 
Not aU your rage, as now united shows 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting. 

Vengeful malice, unrepenting. 
Than heaven-iUumined man on brother man bestows! 
See stem oppression's iron grip, 

On mad ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip. 

Woe, w^ant, and murder o'er a land ! 
E'en in the peaceful rural vale, 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pamper'd Luxury, Flattery by her side, 

The parasite empoisoning her ear. 

With all the servile wretches in the rear. 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 

And eyes the simple rustic hind, 

Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 

A creature of another kind. 

Some coarser substance, unrefined, 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile below. 
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 
Witii xordly Honour's lofty brow, 

The powers you proudly own ? 
Is there beneath Love's noble name. 
Can harbour dark the selfish aim. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK. 129 

To bless himself alone I 
Mark maiden innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares, 
This boasted Honour turns away, 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers. 
Perhaps this hour in misery's squalid nest, 
She strains jowc infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast 1 
Oh ye, who, sunk in beds of down. 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think for a moment on his wretched fate. 

Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill satistied keen nature's clamorous call. 

Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 
While through the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ; 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch already crushed low 
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress ; 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss I " 

I hear nae mair, for chanticleer 
Shook off the poutheray snaw, 

And hailed the morning with a chee— 
A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impressed my mind- 
Through all his works abroad, 

The heart benevolent and kind 
The most resembles God. 



fpistlB tn I. JtHpraik. 



JLN OLD SCOTTISH BAED. 

April Isty 1785. 

While briers and woodbines budding green, 
And paitricks scraichin* loud at e'en, 
And morning poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown fiien' 

I pray excuse. 

On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin', 

To ca* the crack and weave ourstockin'; 

And there was muckle fun and jokin,' 

Ye need na' doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin* 

At sang about. 
9 



130 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
That some kini husband had addrest 

To some sweet wdfe : 
It thirFd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the Ufe. 

I've scarce heard aught described sae weel 
What gen'rous manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark r " 
They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spier't, 
Then a' that ken't him round declared 

He had ingine, 
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't. 

It was sae fine. 

That, set him to a pint of ale, 

And either douce or merry tale. 

Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himsel*, 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdalo 
He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, and swoor an aith, 

Though I should pawn my pleugh and gi*aith, 

Or die a cadger pownie's death 

At some dyke back ; 
A pmt and gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first and foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as 1 could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell ; 

Tho' rude and rough, 
Yet croonmg to a body's sell, 

Does weel eneugh. 

I am na poet, in a sense. 

But just a rhymer, like by chance, 

And hae to learning nae pretence. 

Yet, what the matter ! 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic folk may cock their nose, 
And say " How can you e'er propose, 
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 

To mak a sang ? " 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're may be wrang. 



EPISTLE TO J. LEPRAIK. 

Wliat*s a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns and stook ; 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammars ? 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shoola 

Or knappin-hammers. 

A set o' dull, conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in College classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak : 
And syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek ! 

Gie me a spark o' nature's fire ! 
That's a* the learning I desire ; 
Then though I drudge thro' dub and mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, tho' hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

Oh for a spunk o' Allan's glee. 
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 

If I can hit it ; 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 

If I could get it. 

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends I believe are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist. 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

I winna blaw about mysel ; 

As ill I like my faults to tell ; 

But friends and folk that wish me well. 

They sometimes roose me; 
Tho' I maun own, as monie stiU 

As far abuse me. 

But MauchUne race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care 

K we forgather. 
And hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware 

Wi' ane anither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter 
And kirsen.him wi' reekin water; 
Syne we'll sit down and tak our whitter 

To cheer our heart ; 
And, faith, we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 



131 



1^2 BTJKNS POETICAL WOEKS. 

Awa ye selfisli war'ly race, 

Wha think that haviiis, sense, and grace, 

Even love and friendship should give place 

To catch the plack ; 
I dinna like to see your face 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose heart the tide of kindness warms. 
Who hold your heing on the terms 
' " Each aid the others," 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 
My friends, my brothers ! 

But, to conclude my lang epistle. 
As my auld pen's v/om to the grissle, 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Wlio am, most fervent, 
While I can cither sing or whissle, 
Your friend and servant. 



April 21, 17SS. 

While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake 
And pownies reek in pleugh or braik, 
This hour on e*enin's edge I take. 

To own I'm debtor, 
To honest-hearted auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Forjeskit sair, wi' weary legs, 
RattUn the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or deahng thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten hours' bite, 
My awkwart muse sair pleads and begs 

I would na write. 

The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie, 
She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
Quo' she, " Ye ken we've been sae busy, 

This month and mair, 
That, trouth, my head is grown right dizzie, 

And something sair." 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; 

" Conscience," says I, " ye thowlessjadl 

I'll write, and that a hearty bland, 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK. 

SliaHbauld Lapraik, tliel^mg o' lieai*tSj 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Boose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sae friendly, 
Yet ye*ll neglect to shaw your parts. 

And thank liim kindly. 

Sj?e I gat paper in a blink, 

i^nd down gaed sfrjimpie iii the ink s 

Quoth I, " Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it I 
And tf ye winna mak it clink, 

By Jove I'll prose it ! " 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In ThjTue, or prose, or baitJi thegither, 
<^r some hotch-potch that rightly neith^B^ 

Let time mak proof; 
Bat I shaM scribble down some blether 

Just clean aff-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and carpi, 

I'ho' fortune use you hard and sharp ; 

Come, kittle up your moorlai^d harp 
Wi' gleesome touch : 

Ne'er mind how fortune waft and warp- 
She's but a b-tch. 

^he's gien me mouie a jirt and fleg. 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L— d, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'llkagh, and sing, and shake my leg. 

As kng's I dow ! 

Now comes the sax-and-*wentieth simm«E^ 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year te year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Bob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city gent, 

Behint a kist to lie and sklent, 

Or, purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 

And muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A baillie's name ? 

Or is'tthe paughty, feudal Thane, 

Wi' ruffl'd sark and glancing cane, 

Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank ban«. 

But lordly stalks, 
WMle caps and bonnets aff are taen. 

As by he walks ? 



ISS 



^'^^ BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS, 

Oh, 'Mlou, wha gies us each guid giftf 
Gie me o* wit and sense a lift, 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrifty 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi* cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' their pride ! 

Were this the charter ef our state, ^^ 
" On pain o' hell he rich and great,'* 
Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 
But thanks to Heav'n that's no the gat<t 

We learn our creed ; 

For thus the royal mandate ran, 
^Vhen first the human race began, 
" The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, 

And none but he ! *' 

Ob mandate glorious and divine! 

The followers o' the ragged Nine, 

Poor thoughtless devils yet may shin© 
In glorious Hght, 

While sordid sons o' Mammon's line- 
Are dark as night. 

Tlio* here they scrape, and squeeze, and gro^ 
Their worthless nievfa' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl, 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native kindred skies, 
And sing then: pleasures, hopes, and joys. 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year I 



U Willim ^ [impsnii], 

OCHILTEEE. 

Mai/i 1786. 

I QAT your letter, winsome Willie ; 
Wi' gratefn' heart I thank you brawlie 
Tho' i maun say't, I wad be silly, 

And unco vain, 
Should I beheve, my coaxin* BiUi<?, 

Your flatterin' strain. 



TO "WILLIAM S[iMPSOn]. 188 

But I's3 believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins skknted 

On my poor Musie; 
The' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn*<i iV 

I scarcely excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
-Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan, ©r wi' Gilbertfield, 

The braes o' fame; 
Or Fergusscn, the writer chial, 

A deathless name. 

*(0h 3Pergiisson ! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry musty arts ! 

My curse upon your whunstaue heart v^i- 

Ye E'nbrugh gentry ; 
The^tythe o' v/hat ye v/aste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
•Or lasses gied my heart a screed, 
As whiles they're like to be my deadj 

(Oh -sad disease 1) 
I kittle up my rustic reed; 

It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila, now may fidge fa' fain, 

^he's gotten poets o' her ain, 

Shiels wha their chanters winna hain* 

But tune their lays, 
TiU echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his whae^ 
To set her name in measur'd style ; 
She lay like some unkenn'd-of-isle 

Beside New Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boiJ 

Besouth Magellan. 

Hamsay and famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth and Tay a hft aboon 
Yarrow and Tweed, to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, 

Naebody sings. 

Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, and Seine, 
^jHde sweet in monie a tunefii' line; 
But, Wilhe, set your fit to mine, 

And cock your crest. 
We'll gar our streams and bumies shiufi 

Up wi' the best. 



33^ BUENS'S POETICAL WOESS.. 


"Well sing auld Coila's plains and fells> 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bellsj, 
Her banks and braes, her dens and dell% 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft burn the grec, as story tell, 

Frae southron t^Uies. 


At Wallace' name what Scottish blood 
^ But boil& up in a spring-tids flood ! 

Oft have our fearless fathers strode 
By Wallace' side, 

Still pressing onward, red-wat shod> 
' Or glorious died ! 


Oh sw^eet are Coila' s haughs and wood%. 
When lintwhites chant amang the bud&^ 
And jinkin' hares, m amorous whids, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While tliro' the brass the crushat crood& 

With wailfu' cry ! 


Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
: When winds rave thro' the naked tree j: 
' Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 
[ Are hoary gray ; 

Or bhnding drifts wild furious flee,. 
; Dark'ning the day ! 


J Oh, nature ! a' thy shows and forms 
i To feehng, pensive hearts hae charms- 1 
< Whether the summer kindly w^arms,, 
; Wi' life and light, 
■ Or winter howls in gusty storms,, 
The lang, dark night ! 


The muse, nae poet ever fand her,. 

Till by himsel he learn'd to wander,. 
' Adown some trotting burn's meander,. 
; And no think lang ; 
i Oh sweet, to stray and pensive ponder,. 
• A heart-felt sang ! 


] The war'ly race may drudge and drive,. 
i Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch and strive? 
Let me fair nature's face dsscrive. 

And I, wi' pleasure. 
Shall let the busy grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 


Fareweel, " my rhyme-composing brither^*** 
) We've been owi*e lang unkenn d to ither j, 
Now let us lay our heads thegithcr, 

In love fraternal ; 
May envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal! 

■ ■ ■ — -^- 



TO WILLIAM s[iMPSON]. L^ 

'While Higlilandmen h&te tolls and taxes : 
Wliile moorlan' heads like guid fat braixesi 
While "terra Srma on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend in faith and practice, 

In Robekt BuEifS, 

POSTSCHIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen ^ 

I had amaist forgotten clean, 

Ye bade ms write you what they mean, 

By this New Light, 
'Bout which our herds sae affc hae been 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, and sic talents, 
They took nae pains their speech to balance 

Or rules to gie, 
But spak their thoughts in plain hraidlal lain* 

Like you or me. 
In thae auld times, they thought the mooii, 
Just hke a sark, er pair o' shoon. 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon 

<jraed past their vie^vin^ 
And shortly after she was done. 

They gat a new one. 

This past for certain — undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
Till cliiels gat up and wad confute it, 

And ca'd it wrang ; 
And muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 

Some herds, well learn'd upo' the beuk. 
Wad threap auld folk the think misteuk ! 
For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk 

And out o' sight. 
And backhns-comin', to the leuk 

She grew mair bright. 

This was denied — it was affirmed ; 
The herds and hirsels were alarmed : 
The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd and stonn'd 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better w«re inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 

Frae words and ai^hs to clours and nicks, 

And mony a fallow gat his hcks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
And some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd and brunt. 

V 3 



135^ BtTKNS's POETICAL WOEKSv 

This game was play'd in monie lands, 
And Auld Light caddies bure sic hands, 
That, faith, the youngsters took the sanfe 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
Till lair(& forbade, by strict commands^ 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

» But New Light herds gat sic a cowe, 

Folk thought them iiiin'd stick-and-stow^. 
Till now amaist on every knowe, 

Ye'U iind ane plac'd ; 
And some their New-Light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the Aiold Light flocks are bleatirs*. 
Their zealous herds are vex'd and sweatin' 5. 
Mysel' I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin' spite. 
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on 

By word and write. 

But shortly they will cowe the loons I 
Some Auld Light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't on thinns they ca' balloons, 

To;tak a flight. 
And stay ae month among the moons 

And see them right. 

€ruid observation they will gie them ; 

And when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, 

The hindmost shair'd, they'll fetch it wi' them.. 

Just i' their pouch, 
And when the New Light Billies see thena^ 

I think they'll crouch : 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 

Is naething but a " moonshine matter ;** 

But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



A TRUE STOET. 

Some books are lies fra end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd; 
E'en ministers they liae been kenn'd. 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid .t imes to vend, 

And nairt wi' Scripture. 



DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK, 139 

But this that I am gaun to tell. 
Which lately on a night befell. 
Is just as true's the deil's in hell, 

Or Dublin's city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

's a mucklc pity. 

The clachan yill had made me canty — 

I was na fou, but just had plenty ; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye * 

To free the ditches ; 
And hillocks, stanes, and bushes kenn'd aye 

Frae ghaists and witches. 

The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I could na tell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
And todlin' do\Nin on WiUie's mill, 
Setting my staff wi' all my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
The* leeward whyles, against my wall, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi' something did forgather, 
That put me in an eerie swither : 
An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, 

Clear-danghng, hang ; 
A three-taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large and lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a vame it had ava ; 

And then its shanks. 
They were as thin, as sharp and sma', 

As cheeks o' branks. 

" Guid e'en," quo' I ; " Friend, hae ye boen ma win* 
When other folk are busy sawin' ? " 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan*, 

But naething spak ; 
At length says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun, 

Will ye go back ? " 

It spake right hcwe — " My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd." Quoth I, " Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath ; 

But tent me, biUie — 
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith. 

See, there's a gully ! " 



140 BTJaNS's POETICiJi WOEKS. 

** Guidman," quo' he, " put up your whittle, 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd ; 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 

Out-owre my beard." 

*' Woel, weel," says I, " a bargain be't ; 
Come, gies your hand, and sae we're gree't, 
We'll ease our shanks and tak a seat — 

Come, gies your news ; 
This while ye hae been mony a gate, 

At mony a house." 

*' Ay, ay," quo' he, and shook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread 

And choke the breath ; 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

And sae maun Death. 

" Sax thousand years are nearhand fled 

Sin' I was to the hutching bred, 

And mony a scheme in vain's been laid. 

To stap or scaur me ; 
Till one Hornbook's taen up the trade, 

And faith he'll wanr me. 

" Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' tho clachan, 
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchau« 

And ither chaps. 
The weans hand out the fingers laughin', 

And pouk my hips. 

" See, here's a scjrthe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart ; 
But Doctor Hornbook wi' his art 

And cursed skiU, 
Has made them both no worth a f — t ; 

Damn'd haet they'U kill 

" 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaeu, 

I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; 

But deil-ma-care. 
It just play'd dirl on the bane. 

But did nae mair. 

" Hornbook was by wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortified the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient ha^t o't wad hae pien/d the heart 

Of a kail-runt. 



PEATH AND DR. HOEKBOOK. 141 

" I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

O' hard whin rock, 

" And then a' doctor's saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, and metals, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, and bottles, 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

" Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ; 
True sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The farina of beans and peas, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fortis, what you please. 

He can content ye. 

" Forbye some new, micommon weapons, 

Urinus spuitus of capons ; 

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 

Bistill'd per se : 
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, 

And mony mae." 

" Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole now," 
Quo' I ; "if that thae news be true, 
His braw calf- ward whare gowans grew, 

Sae white and bonny, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; 

They'll ruin Johnny ! " 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
And says, " Ye need na yoke the pleugh, 
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear ; 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 

In twa- three year. 

" Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith. 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap and pill. 

" An honest wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce well bred. 

Gat tippence worth to mend her head. 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed. 

But ne'er spak mair. 



1412 BtJENS's POETICAL W0EK8. 

" A countra laird had taen the batts. 
Or rome curmurring in his guts ; 
His only son for Horul)Ook sets. 

And pays him well — 
The lad, for tvva guid gimmer-pets, 

Was laird himsel. 

" That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's wayi 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, and slay, 

An's well paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey 

Wi' his curs'd dirt. 

" But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited sot 

As dead's a herrin' ; 
Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He get's his fairin' ! " 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal. 

Which rais'd us baith : 
I took the way that pleased mysel', 

And sae did Death. 



% M^ ^Fair. 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty observation ; 
And secret hung, with poison'd crust. 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that hke the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypocrisy a-la-mode. 

Upon a simmer Sunday mom, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the com. 

And snuff the cauler air : 
Tlie rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was gUntin' ; 
Thft hares were hiri)Hng down the furs 

The lav'rocks they were chantin' 

Fu' sweet that day. 



THE HOLT FAIE. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three hizzies, early at the road^ 

Cam skelpin' up the way ; 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefa' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third, that gaed a- wee a-back, 

V/as in the fashion shining, 

Fu' gay that day. 

The twa appeared hke sisters twin. 

In feature, form, and claes ; 
Their visage wdther'd, lang, and thin, 

And sour as ony slaes ; 
The third cam up, hap-step-an*-lowp. 

As light as ony lambie, 
And wi' a curchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me. 

Fu' kind that day. 

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonny face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, and laughin' as she spak, 

And taks me by the hands, 
" Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feek. 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 

" My name is Fun — your cronie dear. 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
And this is Superstition here^ 

And that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin' : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin' 

At them this day." 

Quoth I, " Wi' a' my heart, I'U do't; 

I'll get my Sunday sark on, 
And meet you on the holy spot — 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkinl '* 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time. 

And soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, from side to sid^ 

Wi' monie a weary body, 

In droves that day. 

Here farmers gash, in riding graith, 

Gaed hoddin by their cottars ; 
There, swanldes young, in braw braid claith. 

Are springin' o'er the gutters. 



143 



144 buknb's poetical wo^ks. 

The ltasf?es, skelpin' barefit, tlirang, 

In silks and scarlet glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang, 

And farls bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

WTicn by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glow'r black bonnet throws, 

And we maun draw our tippence, 
Then in we go to see the show ; 

On ev'ry side they're gath'rin*, 
Some carrying dails, some chairs, and stools, 

And some are busy blethrin' 

Right loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

And screen our country gentry, 
There racer, Jess, and twa-three wh-res, 

Are blinkin' at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of titthn' jauds, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, 
And there a batch o' wabster lads, 

Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock 
For fun this day, 

H<jre sum are thinkin' on their sins, 

And some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyi'd his shins, 

Anither sighs and prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up, grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chap's at watch, 

Thrang winking on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

Oh happy is that man and blest ! 

(Nae wonder that it pride him ! ) 
Wha's ain dear lass that he likes best. 

Comes clinkin' down beside him ! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back. 

He sweetly does compose him ; 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom, 

Unkenn'd that da}'. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation : 
For Moodie speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-tion. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him. 
The vera sight of Hoodie's face, 

To's ain bet hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that dav 



THE HOLY FAIR. 



U5 



Eear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi' rattlin' and wi' thumpin' ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin' and he's jumpin' ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his tum'd-up snout, 

His eldritch squeal and gestures. 
Oh, how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters, 

On sic a day. 

But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice s 

There's peace and rest nae longer ; 
For a' the real judges rise. 

They canna sit for anger ; 
Smith opens out his cauld harangiies, 

On practice and on morals ; 
And aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars and barrels 

A Hft that day. 

What signifies his barren shine. 

Of moral powr's and reason ? 
His Enghsh style and gesture fine 

Are a' clean out o' reason. 
Like Socrates or Antoine, 

Or some auld Pagan heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in. 

That's right that day, 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum : 
For Peebles, frae the water-fit. 

Ascends the holy rostrum ; 
See, up he's got the word o' God, 

And meek and mim has view'd it. 
While Common Sense has ta'en the road, 

And aflf, and up the Cowgate, 
Fast, fast, that day. 

Wee MiUer neist the guard relieves. 

And orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes. 

And thinks it auld wives' fables ; 
But faith ! bu*kie wants a manse. 

So, cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit and sense 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him 
At times that day. 

Now butt and ben the change-house fills? 

Wi' yill-caup commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes and giUs, 

And there the pint-stoup clatters ; 

10 o 



146 



BURNS S rOETlCAX WOEKS. 

While thick and thrang, and loud and lanjj, 

Wi' logic and wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end, 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

Leeze on me drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either school or college : 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair, 

It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or any stronger potion. 
It never fails, en drinking deep, 

To pittle up uur notion 

By day or night. 

The lads and lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul and body, 
Sit round the table weel content. 

And steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, and that ane's le^ik^ 

They're making observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

And formin' assignations ** 

To meet some day. 

But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin', 
And echoes back return the shouts — • 

Black Russell is na sparin' : 
His piercing words, like Highlan' swords, 

Divide the joints and marrow ; 
His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell. 

Our vera sauls does harrow 
Wi' fright that day. 

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd full o' lowin' brunstane, 
Wha's ragin' flame, and scorchin' heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane 1 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

And think they hear it roarin', 
WTien presentlj' it does appear 

'Twas but some neebor snorin' 
Asleep that day, 

'Twad be owre long a tale to tell 

How monie stories past. 
And how they crowded to the }dll 

When they were a' dismist : 
How drink gaod round, in cogs and caups 

Amang the furms and benches ; 
And cheese and bread, frae women's hps 

Was dealt about in lunches, 
And dauds that day. 



THE HOLY FAIR, I47 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, 

And sits down by the lire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck and her knife; 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld gnidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays. 

And gi'es them't hke a tether, 
En' lang that day. 

Waesluck ! for him that gets nae lass. 

Or lasses that hae nathing ! ^ 

Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
Oh wives be mindfu' ance yoursel 

How bonny lads ye wanted, 
And dinna, for a kebbuck-heel. 

Let lasses be affronted 
On sic a day. 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow. 

Begins to jow and croon ; 
Some swagger hame the best they dow. 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink. 

Till lasses trip their shoon : 
VVi' faith and hope, and love and drink, 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

0' sinners and o' lasses ! ^ 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane^ 

As saft as ony flesh is, 
There's some are fou o' love divine : 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
And many jobs that day begin 

May end in houghmagandy, 

Some ither day. 



€^ MMmvu 

" For sense they little owe to fnigul heav*n-— 
To please the mob they hide the Uttle giv'u." 

KiLMAENOCK wabstcrs fidge and claw, 

And pour your creeshie nations ; 
And ye wha leather rax and draw, 

Of a* denominations, 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane and a% 

And there tak up your stations ; 
Then aflf to Begbie's in a raw, 

And pour divine libations. 

For joy this day. 



148 BUENS'S POETICAL "WOEffS. 

Curst Common Sense, that imp o' hell, 

Cam in wi' Mag2:ie Lauder ; 
But Oliphant aft made her yell, 

And Russell sair misca'd her ; 
This day M taks the flail, 

And he's the boy will Dlaud her I 
He'll clap a shangan on her fail, 

And set tho bairns to daud her. 

Wi' dirt this day. 

Mak haste and turn king David owre, 

And lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
0' double verse come gie us four. 

And skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 
For Heresy is in her pow'r, 

And gloriously she'll whang her 
Wi' pith this day. 

Come, let a proper text be read. 

And touch it aff wi' vigour, 
How graceless Ham leugh at his dad, 

Which made Canaan a nigger ; 
Or Phineas drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour : 
Or Zipporah, the scauldin' jad. 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' th' inn that day. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 

And bind him down wi' caution, 
That stipend is a carnal weed 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
And gie him o'er the flock to feed, 

And punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross tho breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin'. 

Spare them nae day. 

Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 

And toss thy horns fu* canty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty 
For lapfu's large o* gospel kaU 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
And runts o* grace the pick and wale, 

No gi'en by the way o' dainty. 
But ilka day. 

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion ; 
And hing our noddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-drying ; 



THE OEDINATIOH". 149 

Come screw the pegs, wi' tunefu' cheap 

And o'er the thairms be tryin' ; 
Oh, rare ! to see onr elbucks wheep, 

And a' like lamb-tails flyin' 

Fu' fast this day ; 

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim, 

Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin', 
As lately Fenwick, sair forfaim, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our patron, honest man ! Glencaim, 

He saw mischief was brewiu ' ; 
And like a godly elect bairn 

He's wald us out a true ane, 

And soimd this day. 

Now Robertson, harangue nae raair, 

But steek yonr gab for ever : 
Or try the wicked town of Ajrr, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your leai^.^.. 

Ye may commence a shay^; 
Or to the Netherton repair,' 

And turn a carpet- weaver 

Aff-hand this day. 

Mutrie and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch. 

Just Hke a winkin' baudrons : 
And aye he catched the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons : 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi' a' his brimstome squadrons. 
Fast, fast this day. 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes 

She's swingein through the city ; 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There, Learning, with his Greekish face. 

Grunts out some Latin ditty. 
And Common Sense is gaun, sue says, 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her plant this day. 

But there's Morality himsel*. 

Embracing all opinions ; 
Hear how he gies the tither yell. 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin and fell, 

As ane were peelin* onions ! 
Now there — they're packed aff to hell. 

And banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 

o3 



150 BURIN'S'S POETI.CAL WORKS. 

Oh, happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 
M , Russell, are the boys, 

That Heresy can torture : 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, 

And cowe her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 

Come, bring the tither mutckin in, 

And here's, for a conclusion, 
To every New Light mother's son, 

From this time forth. Confusion : 
If maur they deave us wi' their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and every skin 

We'll rin them aff in fusion. 
Like oil some day. 



atn f ROTS l^mitlr. 



" Friendship ! mysterious cement of tho soul ! 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society I 
I owe thee much I ' ' — Blaie. 

Deab Smith, the slee'est, panlde thief. 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human heaits : 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear, by sun and moon, 
And every star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done 

Mair ta'en I'm with you. 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature , 
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 

On her first plan ; 
And in her freaks, on every feature 

She's wrote, the Man. 

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme. 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi* hasty summon ; 
Hae ye a leisure moment's time, 

To hear what's comin* if 



TO JAMES SMITH. 

Some rhyme a neighbour's name to lash; 
Some rhyme (vain thought) for needfu' cash 
Some rhyme to court the country clash, 

And raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash— 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that iniles my luckless lot. 

Has fated me the russet coat, 

Ad amn'd my fortune to the groat ; 

But in requit, 
Hae blest me wi' a random shot 

0' countra wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent. 
To try my fate in guid black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries " Hoolie ! 
I red you, honest man, take tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 

There's ither poets, much your betters. 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors 

A' future ages ; 
Kow moths deform in shapeless tatters. 

Their unknown pages." 

Then farewell hopes o' laurel boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistHng thrang, 
ADd teach the lanely heights and howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed 
How nerer-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread , 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead. 

Forgot and gone ! 

But why 0* death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're living sound and hale. 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care o'er side ; 
And large before cDJoyment's gale, 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life sae far's I understand. 

Is a' enchanted fairy land, 

Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 



151 



152 BURNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

The magi<; wand, then, let us wield ; 
For, ance that five-and-tbrty's speel'd, 
See, crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkl'd face, 
Comes hostin', hirplin' owre the held. 

Wi' creeping pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the gloaming, 
Then fareweel vacant, careless roamiu' ; 
And fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamiu', 

And social noise ; 
And fareweel dear, deluding woman ! 

The joy of joys! 

Oh life ! how pleasant is thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing caution's lesson scorning. 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at the expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here. 
We eye the rose upon the brier. 
Unmindful that the thorn is near. 

Among the leaves ! 
And tho' the puny wound appear. 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flowr'y spot. 
For which they never toil'd or swat ; 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim some Fortune chase; 
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 
^ They close the day. 

And others', like your humble servan'. 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin'; 
To left or right eternal swervin'. 

They zig-zag on ; 
Till curst with age, obscure and starvin*, 

They often groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil and straining — 
But truce with peevish poor complaining ! 
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gan<^ ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining 

Let's sins: cur sang. 



TO J. SMITH. 163 

My pen I here fling to the door, 

And kneel, " Ye pow'rs," and warm implore 

" The' I should wander terra o'er. 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Tilliicicles hing frae their beards; 
Gie* fine braw claes to fine life guards. 

And maids of honour ! 
And yill and whisky gie to cairds. 

Until they sconner. 

A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to Willie Pitt; 
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent. 
But give me real, sterHng wit. 

And I'm content. 

While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
As-lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace." 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may : 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, 

I rhyme away. 

Oh, ye douce folk, that live by rule. 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you-^oh fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unhke ; 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 

Your lives a dyke ! 

Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces, 
In your unletter'd nameless faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise ; ) 

Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

The ratthng squadi 
I see yon upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road. 



164 BUKNS'S POETICAL W0EK8. 

Whilst I — but I shall baud me there— 
Wi' j'ou I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang. 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



EECITATIVO. • 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird. 
Or wandering hke the baukie-bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter sk}i--e 
And infant frosts begin to bite. 

In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night at e'en a merry core 

0' randie, gangrel bodies. 
In Poosie Nancy's held the splore, ^ 

To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing. 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The vera girdle rang. 

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sait weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets warm — 

She blinket on her sodger : 
And aye he gies the tozie drab 

The tither skelpin' kiss. 
While she held up her greedy gab 
Just like an aumos dish. 
Ilk smack still, did crack still. 

Just like a cadger's whip. 
Then staggering and swaggering 
He roared this ditty up. 

AIE. 

Tune — Soldiers' Joy. 

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a treiu h, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum, 
Lai de dandle, (Su:. 



IHE JOLlTt BEGaAES. 155 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader oreatli'd his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Ahram ; 
I served out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, 
And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de dandle, &c. 

1 lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

And now though I must beg with a wooden arm and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my callet, 
As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

What the' with hoary locks I must stand the winter she jks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home, 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of a drum. 

Lai de daudle &c. 

EECITATIYO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattons backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore ; 

A fairy fiddler frae the neuk 

He skirl'd out " Encore ! " 
But up arose the martial chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. / 

AIE. 

Tvs^^Soldier Laddie. 

I once was a maid, tho* I cannot t^ll when. 
And still my dehght is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing Lai de ral, Ac. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade. 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ! 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church ; 
He ventur'd the soul, and I risk'd the body — 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 

Sing Lal, de lal, &c. 



156 BUBUS S POETICAL W0BK8. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got j 
From the gilted spontoon to the life I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at Cimningham fair ; 
His rags regimental thej' flutter'd so gaudy, 
My heart it rejoiced at a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal, de lal, &c. 

And now I have lived — I know not how long. 

And still I can join in a cup and a song ! 

But whilst with both handle I can hold the glass steady, 

Here's to thee, my hero, my sodgor laddie. 

Sing, Lal, de lal, &c 

EECITATIYO, 

Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk, 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizxie ; 
They mind't na wha the chorus teuk 

Between themselves they were sae busy : 
At length wi' drink and courting dizzy. 

He soiter'd up and made a face ; 
Then tum'd, and laid a smack on Grizzle. 

Syne tuned his pipes wi' grave grimace. 

AIE. 

Tune — Auld Sir Symon» 
Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 

Sir Knave is a fool in a session : 
He's there but a 'prentice I trow, 

But I am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk. 

And I held awa to the school ; 
I fear my talent misteuk, 

But what will ye hae of a fool ? 

For drink I would venture ray neck, 
A hizzie's the half o' my craft. 

But what could ye otlier expect, 
For ane that's avowedly daft ? 

I ance was tied up like a stirk, 

For civilly swearing and quaffiu' ; 
I ance was abus'd in the kirk, 
For touzling a lass i* my daffin. 

Poor Andrew, that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name with a jeer; 

There's ev'n, Pm taught, i' the court 
A tumblex ca'd the premier. 



gPHJB JOLLY BEGGAES. X67 


Observ'd ye, yon r everend lad 
Maks faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squad*— 
It's rivalship just i' the job. 


And now my conclusion I'll tdl, 

For faith I'm confoundedly dry? 
The chiel that's a fool for himsel*, 1 

Ouid L— d ! he's far dafter than I. \ 


EECITATIVO. 


Then neist outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha keut fu' weel to cleek the sterliBgj 
For menie a pnrsie she had hooked, 
And had in monie a well been ducked. 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie. 
But weary fa' the waefa' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sohs she thus began 
To waS her braw John Highlandman. 


AIE. 


TtTNE — Oh an ye were dead, Gruidm<m, 


A Highland lad my love was born, 
The Lawland laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman, 


CHOEUS. ^ 


Sing hey, my braw John Highlandman t : 
Sing ho, my braw John Highlandman ! i 
There's not a M in a' the Ian' \ 
Was match for my John Highlandman, I 


With his philabeg and tartan plaid, ' 
And guid claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, &<3o 


W? ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv'd Hk^ lords and ladies gay ^ 
For a Lawland face he feared none. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman, 


Sing hey, &c. 


They bauish'd him beyond the sea, 

But ere the bnd was on the tree, '; 
Adovm my cheeks the pearls ran, j 
Embracing my John Highlandm^i. 

Sing hey, &c 


But, oh, they catch'd him at the last. 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 





158 BUEWS'S PaETICAX WOBKa. 

My curse upon tliera every one, 
They've haug'd my braw young Higlilatidniaat 
Sing hey, &c. 

And now a widow T mwst mourn, 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can. 
When I think on John Highlandman. 
6ing hey, &a 

JIECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trj-sts and fairs to driddle,- 

Her strappin' limb, and gaucy middle 

(He reach'd na higher) 
Had hol'd his heartie Hke a 'iddle. 

And blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haimcb, and upward e'e 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three^ 
Then in an arioso key. 

The wee Apollo 
Set off wi' allegretto glee 

His giga solo. 

AIB. 

TvTSS'-'WTiietle o'er the lave o*9 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear. 
And then you every care and fear 
May whistle o^ivre the lave o' t. 



I am a fiddler to my trade. 
And a' the tunes that e'er I play'^ 
The sweetest still to wife or maid. 
Was wliistle o'er the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be ther«^ 
And oh, sae nicely we will fare : 
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &;^ 

Siie merrily the banes we'll pyke. 
And sun oursels about the dyke. 
And at our leisure, when ye like. 
We'll whistle o'er the lave o't. 

I am, &C. 

But bless me wi' your heaven o' charuaa^ 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 



L 





THE JOLLY BFGGAES, t59 




Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms. 
May whistle owre the lave o'4, 
I am, &c. 




EECITATI70. 




Her charms had struck a sturdy cair' i 
As weel as poor gut-scraper; 

■He taks the fiddler by th« beard 
And draws a roosty rapier- 




He had no wish but — to be glad, 
Nor want but — when he thirsted; 

He had nought but — to be sad, 
And thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 




AIE. 




Tune— J\?r a' that, and a' tha$. 




I am a bard of no regard 
Wi' gentle folks and a' that : 

Sut Hom^-like, the glowrin' byke, 
Frae town to town I draw that. 




<3Ho»irs. ^ 




For a' that, and a' that, 

And twice as muckle's a' that 5 ^ 
I Ve lost but ane, I've twa behio/ • 

I've wife eneugh for a' that. 




i never drank the Muses' stank, 
Castalia's bum and a' that ; 

But there it streams, and richly reamfij 
My Helicon I ca' that, 

For a' that, &c. 




Great love I bear to a' the fair. 

Their humble slave and a' that; ; 
But lordly will, I hold it still, 

A mortal sin to thraw that, 

For a' that, &c. 




In raptures sweet, this hour we meetp 
Wi' mutual love and a' that ; 

But for how lang the fiee may stang, 
Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c, 




Their tricks and craffc have put me daft^ 
They've ta' en me in, and a' that ; 

Sut clear your decks, and here's the sec 
I like the jads for a' that. ^ 



16$ 



BITEIfS S POETICAL W02K8^ 
CH0EU8. 

For a' that, and a' that, 
And twice as muckle's a' that f 

My dearest bluid, to do them gdid^ 
They welcome till't for a' that.. 

EECITATIVO. 

So sang the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a wonder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their du^ 
Tliey scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowin' drougth. 
Then owre again, the jovial thrang. 

The poet did request, 
To loose his pack and wale a sang^ 
A hailad o* the best. 
He rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorus, 

AIE. 

Tune— Jb% Mortals, fill your glasses 

See ! the smoking bowl before U3, 

Mark our iavial ragged ring ! 
Round and round take up the ononis,. 

And in raptures let us sing. 



A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where. 

A fig, Ac 

With the ready trick and fable. 
Round we wander all the day : 

And at night, in barn or stable,. 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 

Afig,A« 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Through the country lighter rove ? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love I 

A fig, &«i 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOITBlf, ^<^l 

ife is all a variorum, 
We regard not how it goes ; 
=Let them cant about decorum 
Who have characters to lose. 

A fig, &a 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets, 
Here's to all the wandering trains 
Here's our ragged brats and callets. 
One and all cry out — Amen ! 
A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 
Churches built to please the priest. 



Mu mm mtt tn Mnim 



WsEN chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One ev'ning as I wandered forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
-I spied a man whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care 5 
His face was furrow'd e'er with years. 

And hoary was Ms hair. 

" Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? 

Began the rev'rend sage : 
" Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain. 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
Or haply, prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast begun 
To wander forth with me to mourn 

The miseries of man. 

The sun that overhangs yon moors. 

Outspreading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride : 
I've seen yon weary winter sun 

Twice forty times return. 
And ev'ry time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 

Oh man, while in thy early years. 

How prodigal of time ! 
Misspending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious, youthful prime ! 

11 p8 



162 BUENS'S POETICAL W0EZ9, 

Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentioug passions burn ; 
With tenfold force gives nature's laWjr 

That man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime^ 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right ; 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn : 
Then age and want — oh ! iU-match'd paisrH 

Show man was made to mourn. 

A few seem favourites of fate. 
In pleasure's lap carest ; 

Yet, think not all the rich and great 
Are likewise truly blest. 

Bat, oh ! what crowds in every land. 
All wretched and forlorn, 

Through weary life this lesson learn- 
That man was made to mourn. 

Many and sharp the mim'rous ills 

Inwoven with our frame. 
More pointed still we make ourselves 

Regret, remorse, and shame ; 
And man, whose heaven-erected fac^ 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn. 

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile. 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow worm 

The poor petition spurn. 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

If I'm designed yon lordling's slave- 
By nature's law design'd — 

Why was an independent wish 
E'er planted in my mind ? 

If not, why am I subject to 
His cruelty or scorn ? 

Or why has man the will and power 
To make his fellow mourn ? 

Yet, let not this too much, my son. 
Disturb thy youthful breast ; 

This partial view of human kind 
Is surely not the last I 



TO A MOUSE. 163 

The poor, oppressed, honest man 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

Oh Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs ^ 

Are laid 'vith thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

Prom pomp and pleasure torn ! 
But, oh ! a blest relief to those 

That, wearv-laden, mourn ! " 



^n H Mnmi, 



OH TTJBNING- UP HES NEST "WITH HIS PLOUGH. 

November, 1785. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie. 
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie I 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad bo laith to rin and chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring prattle ! 

I'm truly sorrow man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social union. 
And justifies that ill opinion. 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

And fellow-mortal ! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then, boor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen icker in a thrave 

s' a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive. 

And never miss't . 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
And naething now to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ; 
And bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 
And weary winter comin' fast. 
And cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 



164 BURNS 8 POETICAL WOEKB. 

That wee bit heap o* leaves and stibble^ 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's tum'd out for a' thy trouble 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

And cranreuch cauld I 

But, mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men 

Gang aft a-gley, 
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, och ! I backward cast my e'e, 

On prospects drear ! 
And forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess and fear. 



rUAN FIEST. 

The sun had clos'd the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play. 
And hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
Wliile faithless snaws ilk step betray. 

Wliare she has been, 

The thresher's wcaiy flingin' tree 
The lee-lang day had tir'd me ; 
And when the day had clos'd his e*e, 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence right pensivelie, 

I gacd to rest. 

There, lanely, by tlie ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fiU'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek. 

The auld clay biggin*; 
And heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin*. 

All in the mottie, misty cHme, 
I backward mus'd on wasted time, 
IIow I had spent my youthfu' primes 

^ And done nae thing, 

But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, 
For fools to sing. 



THE VISION. 165 

Had I to guid advice but harkit. 
I might by this hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank and clarkit 

My cash account : 
WhUe here, half mad, half fed, half sarki! 

Is a' th* amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coof! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith, 
That I henceforth would be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath — 

When, click ! the stiing the snick did draw • 
And, gee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
And by my ingle-lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin' bright, 
A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw. 

Come full in sight. 

Ye needna doubt, I held my whist ; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht ; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I*d been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth she blusht 

And stepped ben. 

>reen, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted gracefa' round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token, 
And come to stop those reckless vows, 

Wou'd soon been broken. 

A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace" 
Was strong-ly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour. 

Down flow'd her robe a tartan sheen. 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae thought, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else came near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue. 

My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingliog, threw 

A lustre grand ; 
And seemed to my astonished view, 

A well-known land. 



1G6 BURNS S POETICAL WORKS. 

!!( TO, rivors in the sea were lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were tost; 
Here, tumbling: billows mark'd the coaBt 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

The lordly dome. 

Here Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods, 
Tliere, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 
And hermie Ajt staw thro' his woods, 

On to the shore, 
And many a lesser toiTent scuds. 

With seeming roar. 

Low in a sandy valley spread. 

An ancient borough rear'd her head, 

Still, as in Scottish story read. 

She boasts a race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred. 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately toVr or palace fair, 

Or ruins pendant in the air. 

Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem*d to dart^ 

With feature stem. 

My heart did glowing transport feel. 

To see a race heroic wheel. 

And brandish round the deep-dy'd ste^l 

In stm-dy blows ; 
Wliile back recoihng seem'd to reel 

Their suthron foes. 

His Country's Sa\dour, mark him well ! 
Bold Richardton's heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark, who glorious fell 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, portrayed 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, imdismay'd. 

They strode along. 

Thro' many a wild romantic gi'ove, 
N^^ur many a hermit-fancied cova, 
(L'it haunts for friendship or for love), 

In musing mood ; 
An aged judj^c, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 



THE VISKW. 167 



With deep-stmck, reverential awe 
The learned sire and son I saw, 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore, 
This, all its source and end to draw. 

That, to adore. 

Brydone's brave ward I well could spy. 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye; 
Who calFd on Fame, low standing by, 

To baud him on. 
Where many a patriot-name on high 

And hero shone. 

PUAN SECOITD, 

With musing deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heavenly-seeming fair ; 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear 

Of kindred sweet. 
When, with an elder sister's air, 

She did me greet. 

" All hail I my own inspir'd bard ! 
In me thy native Muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low! 
I come to give thee such regard 

As we bestaw. 

Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light aerial band. 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand. 

Their labours ply. 

They Scotia's race among them share j 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some raise the patriot on to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the bard, a darling care, 

The tuneful art. 

*Mong sweUing floods of reeking gore^ 
They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour, 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar. 

They, sightless, stj 
To mend the honest patriot lore, 

And grace the hand. 

And when the bard, or hoary sage^ 
Charm or instruct the future age, 



168 BUENS'S POETICAL WOBK* 

They bind tlio wild, poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

Hence Fullarton, the brave and young ? 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspir'd tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His * Minstrel Lays : ' 
Or tore, with nobler ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

To lower orders are assigned 

riie humbler ranks of human-kind. 

The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind, 

The artizan ; 
Ail choose, as various they're inclin'd, 

The various man. 

When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat'ning storm some strongly reiii| 
Some teach to meliorate the plain, 

With tillage skill; 
And some instruct the shepherd train, 

Bly the o'er the hill. 

Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

Some, bounded to a district space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic bard j 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 

Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Wliere once the Campbells, chiefs of f&sxm. 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I marked thy embryo tuneful flame. 

Thy natal hour. 

With future hope, I oft would gaze, 
Pond, on thy little eariy ways, 
Thy rud«t/"caroll'd, chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays, 

Of other times. 

I saw thee seek the sounding shore^ 
Dehghted with the diishing roar ; 



THE VISION, lg9 

Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove through the sky, 
I saw grim nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

Or when the deep green-mantled earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret*s hirth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirth 

With boundless love. 

When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noisCj 
I saw thee leave their evening joys, 

And lonely stalk, 

To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. . 

When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To soothe thy flame. 

I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee pleasui'e's devious way, 
Misled by fancy's meteor-ray. 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from Heaven. 

I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 

Become thy friends. 

Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 

With Shenstone's art; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 

Yet all beneath the unrivall'd rose. 

The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 

Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade. 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade. 

Then never mimnur nor repine; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 



170 BURNS S POETICAL WORKS. 

And, trust me, not Potosi's mine, 
Nor king's regard, 

Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine^ 
A rustic bard. ^ 

To give my counsels all in one— 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of man, 

With soul erect ; 
And trust, the universal plan 

With all protect. 

And wear thou" — she solemn said, 
And boimd the holly round my head t 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play ! 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



8t^B M^fs f Ernst Cri{ EEi fu^n 

TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOlTai 
OF COMMONS. 

" Dearest of distillation ! last and best ! 
How art thou lost 1" — parody on milton. 

Ye Irish lo'rds, ye knights and squires. 
Wha represent our brughs and shires, 
And doucely manage our affairs 

In parhament. 
To you a simple bardie's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roopit Muse is hearse ! 

Your honour's heart wi* grief 'twad pierce^ 

To see her sittin' on her a — 

Low i' the dust, 
And scriechin' out prosaic verse. 

And like to brust ! 

Tell them wha hae the cliief direction, 
Scotland and me's in great affiction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On aqua vitse ; 
And rouse them up to strong conviction, 

And move their pity. 

Stand forth, and tell yon Premier youth. 

The honest, open, naked truth : 

Tell him o' mine and Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble t 
The muckle devil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble I 



THB author's earnest CRY. 17| 

Docs ony great man glunch and gloom? 
Speak out, and never fas your thoom ! 
Let posts and pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em. 
If honestly they canna come, 

Far better want 'em. 

Ill gathrin' votes you were na slack 
K(j\v stand as tightly by your tack; 
Ke'er claw your lug, and fidge your back, 

And hum and haw ; 
But raise your arm, and tell your crack 

Before them a\ 

Paint Scotland greeting ower her thrissle, 
Her mutchkin stoup a toom's a whissle ; 
And d-mn'd Excisemen in a bussle, 

Seizin' a stell, 
Triumphant crushin't Hke a mussel 

Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 

A blackguard smuggler, right behint her, 

And cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vinter, 

Colleaguingjoin, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's-bluid rising hot. 
To see his poor auld mither's pot , 

Thus dung in staves. 
And plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ! 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 

Trod i' the mire out of sight ! 

But could I like Montgomeries fight, 

Or gab like BosweU, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tigUb, 

And tie some hose welL 

God bless your honours, can ye see't, 
ITie kind, auld, cantie carHn greet, 
And no get warmly to your feet, 

And gar them hear it. 
And tell them, with a patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it. 

Some 0* you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period and pause, 
And wi* rhetoric clause on clause 

So mak harangues ; 
Then echo through St. Stephen's wa't 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 



172 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot I*se warran*, 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran, 
And that glib-gabbet Highland baron, 

The Laird o' Graham, 
And ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auldfarran, 

Dundas his name. 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie, 
True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay ; 
And Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie; 

And monie ithers, 
WTiom auld Demosthenes or TuUy 

May'n own for brithers. 

See sodger Hugh, my watchmen stented. 

If bardies e'er were represented; 

I ken if that your sword were wanted, 

Ye'd lend a hand, 
But when there's aught to say anent it, 

Ye're at a stand. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith, I'll wad my now pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'll see't ere lang, 
She'll t^ach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in crankus mood. 
Her lost militia fir'd her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that plislde !) 
And now she's like to run red-wud 

About her whisky. 

And, L — d ! if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
And durk and pistol at her belt. 

She'll tak the streets, 
And rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I' the first she meets ! 

For G-d sake, sirs, then speak her fair, 
And straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
And to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed ; 
And strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongued tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers and mockBj 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks 1 

E'en CO we the cadie I 
An* send him to his dicing box 

And sportin' lady. 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRT. 173 

Tell yon guid bluid o* auld Boeonnock's, 

I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, 

And drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's 

Nine times a week, 
If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Coiild he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch. 
He 11 need na fear their foul reproach, 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coahtion. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
And if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Though by the neck she should be strung, 

She'll no desert. 

And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, 
May still your mither's heart support ye ; 
Then, tho' a minister grow dorty. 

And kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor and hearty 

Before his face. 

God bless your honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise, 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes, 

That haunt St. Jamies ! 
Your humble Poet sings and prays 

Wliile Rab his name is. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies 
See future wines rich clust'ring rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But, blythe and frisky, 
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys 

Tak aff their whisky. 

What though their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charmi, 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms. 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun*s a burthen on their shoulther, 
They downa bide the stink o* powther ; 

q3 



174 BURNS*S POETICAL WORKS. 

Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring^ swither 

To Stan' or rin, 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther. 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say such is royal George's will, 
And there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 
Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; 
Death comes — wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him ; - 

And when he fa's, 
His latest draft o' breathing lea'es him 

In faint huzzas ! 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
And raise a philosophic reek, 
And physically causes seek. 

In clime and season : 
But teU me whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected mither, 
Tho' willies ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and whisky gang thither ! — 

Take aff your dram ! 



Irntrjr irrak. 



*' Gie him strong di-ink, until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair ; 
And hquor guid to fire his bluid. 

That's prest wi' grief and care ; 
There let him bouse, and deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
TUl he forgets his loves or debts. 

And minds his griefs no more." 

Solomon's peoveeb, xxxi, 6, 7. 

L>:t other poets raise a fracas, 

*Bout vines, and wines, and dru'ken Bncchus, 

And crabbit names and stories wrack us, 

And grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scotch beer can mali us, 

In glass or jug. 



SCOTCH DEUfE. 

Oh thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch drink; 
Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink. 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink. 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name ! 

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, 
And aits sit up their awnie horn, 
And peas and beans, at e'en or mom, 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain 1 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood. 
In soupie scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood 

Wi' kail and beef; 
But when thou pour thy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin* ; 
Tho' Hfe's a gift no worth receivin'. 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin'; 

But, oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill scrievin*, 

Wi' ratthn' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear : 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft clad in massy siller weed, 
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need. 

The poor man's wine. 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchen's fine. 

Thou art the life o' pubHc haunts ; 

But thee, what were om* fairs and rants ? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd, 
Wlien gaping they besiege the tents, 

Ai'e doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in. 
Oh sweetly then thou reams the horn in. 
Or reekin' on a new-year morninjj 

In cog or bicker, 
And just a wee drap sp'ritual bum in, 

And gusty sucker f 



175 



» ' »i m' 



17G BUENS'S POETICAL W0BK8» 

"Wlien Vulcan gies his bellows breath. 
And ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
Oh rare ! to see thee fizz and freath 

I' the lugget caup ! 
Then Burnewin comes on like death 

At ev'ry chap. 

Nae mercy, then, for air or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel. 

The strong forehammer, 
Till block and studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamoui*. 

When skirlin* w^eanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumbUn' cuifs their dearies slight ; 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea. 
And just as wud aswud can be, 
How easy can the barley-bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason I 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
And hardly, in a winter's season. 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash 1 
Fell source o' monie a pain and brash ; 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, di-ucken hash, 

0' half his days; 
And sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell. 
Poor plackless devils like mysel, 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell. 

Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench 
And gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi* a glunch 

0* sour disdain, 
Out owre a gla^s o' whisky punch 

Wi' honobt men ! 



SCOTCH DEINK. 177 

Oh whisky ! soid o* plays and pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks ; 
When wanting thee what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes — they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a — ! 

Thee, Ferintosh, oh sadly lost ! 
Scotland lament from coast to coast; 
Now coHc grips, and barkin hoast, 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast, 

is ta'en awa ! ^, 

Thae curst hoi-se-leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize, 
Hand up thy han', Deil, ance, twice, thrice ! 

There, se'ze the bhnkers ! 
And bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor d — n'd drinkers. 

Fortune, if thou'U but gie me stiU 
Hale breeks, a scone, and whisky giU, 
And rowth o' rhyme to rave at wiU, 

Tak a' the rest. 
And deal't about as thy bhnd sMU 

Directs the best. 



IMffMS tn tliB turn iEii, 

OB THE EIGIDLT EIGHTEOUS. 

" My »son, these maxims make a rule, 

Aid lump them aye thegither ; 
The Bjgid Righteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anither; 
The cleanest com that e'er was dight 

May hae some pyles o' caff in ; 
So ne'er a feUow-creatur6 slight 

For random fits o' daffin." 

Solomon — Eccles. vii. 16. 

Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye*Te nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebor*s fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is Uke a well-gaun mDl, 

Supplied wi' store o* water, 
The heaped happer*s ebbing still. 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals. 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaiket Folly's portals : 



178 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

I, for their thoughtless, careless sokes, 
Would here propone defences, 

Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 
Their failings and mischances. 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What maks the mighty differ ? 
Discoimt what scant occasion gave 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft mair than a* the lave^) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop ; 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It maks an unco lee- way. 

See social life and glee sit down. 

All joyous and unthinking. 
Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking : 
Oh, would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

D-nmation of expenses ! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames. 

Tied up in godly laces, 
Before ye gie poor frailty names. 

Suppose a change o' cases : 
A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inoHnation — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin' wrang, 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

Tne moving whj^ they do it : 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
Ue knows each chord — its various tone, 

Each spring — its various bias : 



TAM SAMSON*S ELEGY. 179 

Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it : 
What's done we partly may compute^ 

But know not what's resisted. 



** An honest man's the noblest work of God," 

POFBi 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? 
^ great M'Kinlay thrawn his heel? 
Or Robertson again grown weel, 

^^ preach and read ? 
Na, waur than a' ! " cries ilka chiel— 

Tarn Samson's dead. 

Kihnamock lang may grunt and grane 
And sigh, and sob, and greet her kne. 
And deed her bainis, man, wife, and weao 

In mourning weed; 
To death she's dearly paid the kane— 

Tam Samson's dead I 
The brethren o' the mystic level 
May hing their head in woefa' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony head; 
Death s gi'en the lodge an unco devel— 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
When Winter muffles up his doak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the lochs the curlers flock 
-__ .„ Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 
_ Tam Samson's dead* 
He was the king o' a' the core. 
To guard, to draw, to wick a bore. 
Or up the rink Hke Jehu roar 

In time o' need; 
But now he lags on death's hog-scor©— 

Tam Samson's dead! 
Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 
And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson haiL-^ 
And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail. 

And geds for creed, 
Smce dark in death's fish-creel we wail 
Tam Samson dead. 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw 



X80 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

Ye maukins, cock your fiid fu*' braw, 

Withoutendreaxi; 
Your mortal fae is now awa' — 

Tarn Samson's dead \ 

That woefu' mourn be ever mourn'd, 
Saw him in shooting graith adom'd, 
While pointers round impatient bum d, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, och, he gaed and ne'er return'dl— 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

In vain old age his body batters ; 

In vain the gout his ancles fetters : 

In vain the burns cam' down Hke watera, 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, greeting, clatters, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Owre many a weary hag he limpit, 
And aye the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward death behind him jumpitii 

Wi' deadly feide; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 
Tam Samson's dead ! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; 
" L-dl fire! he cried, and owre did stagger-' 
Tam Samson's dead ! 

Ilk hoary hunter moum'd a brither ! 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; 
Yon aidd grey stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether 

Tam Samson's dead I 

There now he lies in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest. 

To hatch and breed ; 
Alas ! na mair he'U them molest !— 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander bv yon grave, 
Three voUies let his mem ry crave 

0' pouther and lead. 
Till echoes answer fra her cave, 
Tam Samson's dead! 



DESPONDENCY. 181 



Heaven rest his saul, whare*er he be! 
Is th* wish o' mony mae than me ; 
He had twa fauts, or maybe three, 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 



Tarn Samson's weel-wom clay here lies. 
Ye canting zealots spare him ; 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye' 11 mend or ye win near him. 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly, 
Thro* a' the streets and neuks o' Killie, 
Tell ev'ry social, honest Billy 

To cease his grievin', 
For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gulUe, 

Tarn Samson's iiyin' I 



AS[ OPE. 

Oppeess'd with grief, oppress'd with ewe, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I sit me down and sigh : 
Oh life ! thou art a gaUing load, 
Along a rough, a weary road. 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view, 
What sick'ning scenes appear I 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro' 
Too justly I may fear. 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom ; 

My woes here shall close ne'er 

But with the closing tomb ! 

Happy, ye sons of busy hfe. 
Who, equal to the bustling strife. 

No other view regard j 
Ev'n when the wished end's denied. 
Yet while the busy means are pUed; 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim. 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night 

And joyless mom the same : 



182 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

You, bustling and justling, 
Forget each grief and pain; 

I listless, yet restless, 
Find every prospect Tain. 

How blest the Solitary's lot, 
Wbo, all forgetting, all forgot. 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or haply to his ev'ning thought-, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream : 
Wliile praising and raising 

His thoughts to Heav'n on h'gh 
As wand'ring, meand'ring, 
He views the solemn sky. 

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footstep trac d, 

Less fit to play the part; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art : 
But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joya 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise. 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not. 

Or human love or hate. 
Whilst I here, must cry here 
At perfidy ingrate ! 

Oh, enviable, early days. 

When dancing, thoughtless pleasure s maze. 

To care, to guilt unknown ; 
How ill exchanged for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish. 
The losses, the crosses. 

That active man engage ; 
The fears all, the tears all, 
Of dim declining age ! 



THE COTTEE'S SATURDAY ITIGHT. 183 

€^i Cutter's ^Htttrte^ gigjit, 

IWSCEIBED TO EOBEET AIKIN, ESQ. 

" Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandem* hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the p©or." 

GRAF, 

My lov'd, my hononr'd, much respected friend, 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end ; 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise ? 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in hfe's sequester'd scene ; 
The native feehngs strong, the guileless ways ; 

WTiat Aitken in a cottage would have been ; 
A h ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, T weena 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough ; 

The short'ning winter day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugli ; 

The black'ning train o' craws to their repose : 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end ; 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 
And weary o'er the moor his course does hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Tlie expectant wee things toddlin, stacher through. 

To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise and glee : 
His wee bit ingle, bhnkin' bonnily. 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 
Ine Hsping infant pratthng on his knee. 

Does a' liis weajry kiaugh and care beguile. 
And makes him quite forget his labom- and his toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out amang the farmers roun'. 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neibor town j 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. 

In youthfii' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
Comes home, perhaps, to show a bra' new gown, 

Or deposit her sair-won penny fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet. 
And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 

The social hours, swift- wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; 
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 



184 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

The parents, partial, eye their their hopeful yean) 

Anticipation forward points the view, 
The mother wi' her needle and her shears, 

Gars auld claes amaist as weel's the new ; 
The father mixes a' \vi' admonition due. 

Their master's and their mistress's command, 

The younkers are warned to obey ; 
And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 

And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to j auk or play; 
" And oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

And mind your duty, duly, morn ,and night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!" 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door, 

Jenny wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek, 
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless raka 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; 

A strappin youth ; he taks the mether's e'e ; 
Bly the Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate and lathefu', scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 

Oh happy love ! — where love like this is found ! 

Oh heartfelt raptures ! bhss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this wearj^, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
" If Heaven a di'aught of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'niug gale." 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! — 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth 1 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondhng o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild P 



THE COTTEK 8 SATURDAY NIGHT. 185 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesame parritch, chief of Scotia's food ; 
The soupe their only hawkie does afford, 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : 
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood. 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebluck, fell, 
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid ; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, mth patriarchal grace, 

The big ha' -bible, ance his father's pride; 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyai-t haffets wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once (fid sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care; 
And " Let us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise, 

Oi' plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name, 
Or noble Elgin beets the lieaven-ward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickl'd ear no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with om* Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page — 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire , 
Oi* other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme — 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was r,hed ; 
How He who bore in Heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped. 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; [command. 

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal Ki^g-. 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 

That thus they aU shall meet in future daj-s : 

E 3 



186 BUENS'S POETICAL WOUKS. 

There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 

Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more deai* ; 
W^nile circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride. 

In all the pomp of method and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's ev'iy grace, except the heart ! 
The pow'r, iucens'd, the pageant will desert. 

The -pompous strain, the sarcedotal stole ; 
But, haply, in some cottage far apart, 

]\Iay hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul ; 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay. 

And profter up to Heaven the warm request. 
That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest. 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. 

For them, and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God ! " 
And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road. 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ? — a cumbrous load. 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 

Oh Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 

Be Ijlest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 
And oh ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their n^uch-lov'd isle. 

Oh Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart, 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or no})ly die the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
Oh never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 
In briglit succession raise, her ornament and grnard. 






TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 187 



IK TUENING- ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH 
IN APEIL, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

My bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neibor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet, 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi' speckl'd breast, 
When upward springing, blythe, to greet 

The purphng east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the tender earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield. 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield « 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

0' clod or stane, 
Adorn the histie stibble field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head, 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed 

And low thou Hes ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simpHcity betray'd, 

And guileless trust. 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd I 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o*er ! 



188 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Such fate to suffering worth it giv*n, 

"Who long with wants and woes have striv*!^ 

By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav*!!, 

He, ruin'd, sink! 

Ev'n thou who moum'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom. 



MAY, 1796. 

I lANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you. 
Though it should serve nae other end 

Than just a kind memento ; 
But how the subject-theme may gan^ 

Let time and chance determine : 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon, 

Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew dear, beheve me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad. 

And muckle they may grieve ye ; 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought 

Wliere ev'ry nerve is strain'd. 

I'll no say men are villains a' : 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law , 

Are to a few restricked : 
But, och, mankind are unco weak. 

And httle to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

It's rarely right adjusted. 

Yet they who fa' in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure. 
For still the important end of life 

They equally may answer: 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him, 
A man may take a ncibor's part, 

Yet hae no cash to spare him. 



I 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG PRIEND. 189 

Aye free, aff han, your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony ! 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel as weePs ye can 

Frae critical dissection : 
But keek through ev*ry other man, 

Wi* sharpen^, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love. 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it 
I waive the quantum o' the sin. 

The hazard of conceahng; 
But och ! it hardens a' within. 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

To catch dame Fortune^s golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justified by honour; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Xor for a train-attendant, 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 
To baud the wretch in order; 

But where ye feel your honour grip, 
Let that aye be your border : 

Its shghtest touches, instant pause- 
Debar a' side pretences ; 

And resolutely keeps its laws. 
Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere 

Must sure become the creature, 
But still the preaching can forbear, 

And e'en the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity ofiended ! 

When ranting round in pleasure's rinjf 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on life we're tempest driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker, 
A correspondence fix*d wi' Heav'n 

Is sure a nobler anchor ! 



190 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Adieu ! dear, amiable youth, 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting ; 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth 

Erect your brow undaunting. 
In ploughman phrase, " God send you speed, ' 

Still daily to grow wiser ; 
And may you better reck the rede 

Than ever did th' adviser ! 



Expect na. Sir, in this nan*ation, 
A fleeching, fleth'ring doAiication, 
To roose you up, and ca' you guid, 
And sprung o' great and noble bluid, 
l>ecause ye're surnam'd like bis grace ; 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd, and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' he, 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
Foi' fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them wlia 
]\Iaun please the great folk for a wamefou ; 
For me — sae laigh I needna bow. 
For me. Lord be thankit, I can plough ; 
And when I do^vna yoke a naig, 
Tlicn, Lord be thankit, I can beg; 
Sae I shall say, and that's na flatt'rin'. 
It's just sic poet, and sic patron. 
The poet, some guid angel help him. 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him. 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

T)ic Patron (Sir, ye maun forgive me, 

I winna lie, come what will o' me), 

On cv'ry hand it wiU allowed be, 

He's just — nae better than he should be, 

I readily and freely grant. 

He downa see a poor man want; 

What's no his ain he winna tak it, 

Wliat ance he says he winna break it ; 

Ou2:ht he can lend he'll no refus't 

Till aft his goodness is abus'd; 

And rascals whyles that do hiih wrang", 

Ev'n that he does na mind it lang : 

As master, landlord, husband, father, 

He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a* that ; 
N to g >dly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's nacthing but a milder feature. 
Of our poor sinfu*, corrupt nature ; 



k DEDICATION TO Q±Y11S HAMILTON. ESQ. 191 

Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos and Pagan Turks 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wlia never heard of orthodoxy . 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of d-mn-tion ; 
Its just a carnal inchnation. 

Morahty, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens of thousands thou hast slam : 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust 15 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice. 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re. 
But point the rake that taks the door ; 
Be to the poor like ony whunstane, 
And baud their noses to the grunstane— 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving, 
No matter — stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs and half-mile graces^ 
Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces ; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
111 warrant then ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, stanch believer. 

Oh ye, wha leave the springs 0' Calvin, 
For gumhe dubs of your ain delvin', 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror, 
When Vengeance draws the sword in wratli. 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : 
WTiile o'er the harp pale Mis'ry moans, 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans I 

Your pardon. Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me 
My readers still are sure to loss me. 
So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my works I did review, 
To dedicate them, Sir, to you : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill,) 
I thought them something lik yoursel 



19B BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Tlien patronise them wi' your favour, 

And your petitioner shall ever— 

I liad amaist said, ever pray, 

But that's a word I need na say : 

F' r prayin' I hae little skill o't ; 

I'm Daith dead sweer, and wretched ill o't ; 

But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 

That kens and hears about you, Sir — 

** May ne'er Misfortune's growling bark, 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the clerk ; 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May Kennedy's far-honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 
Till flamiltons, at least a dizen, 
Are by their canty fireside risen : 
Five bonnie lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout and able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays 
Shine on the ev'ning o' his days, 
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae muir shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow." 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 

With complimentary efl'usion ; 

But whilst your wishes and endeavours 

Are blest with fortune's smiles and favours^ 

I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent. 

Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which pow'rs above prevent,) 

That iron-hearted carl, Want, 

Attended in his grim advances, 

By sad mistakes and black mischances, 

While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him 

Make you as poor a dog as I am, 

Your humble servant then no more ; 

For who would humbly serve the poor ! 

But, by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n 1 

While recollection's power is giv'n, 

If, in the vale of humble life. 

The victim sad of fortune's strife, 

I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 

Should recognise my master dear, 

If, friendless, low, we meet together. 

Then, Sir, your hand— my friend and brother. 



A DREAM. 193 



% ittnm. 

"Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason; 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason." 

GuiD morning to your Majesty !^ 

May Heaven augment your blisses. 
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My bardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is. 
Is sure an uncoutli sight to see, 

Amang the birth-day dresses, 
Sa fine this day. 

I see ye're complimented thrang, 

By many a lord and lady ; 
** God save the king ! '* a cuckoo sang, 

That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready. 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But aye unerring steady. 
On sic a day. 

For me, before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter : 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So, nae reflections on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's mony waur been o' the race, 

And aiblins ane been better 
Then you this day. 

Tis very true my sovereign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted ; 
But facts are chiels that winna ding 

And downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest beneath your wing 

Is e'en right reft and clouted. 
And no the third part of the string, 

And less, will gang about it 
Than did ae day. 

Far be't fra me that I aspire 
To blame your legislation. 



Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 
To rule this mighty nation ! 

But, faith, I muckle doubt, my sir^ 
Ye've trusted ministration 
13 



194 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 
Wad better fiU'd their station 
Than courts yon day. 

And now ye*ve gien auld Britain peace; 

Her broken shins to p^aister. 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God» my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain weariug faster, 
Or faith, 1 fear, that with the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 

I'm no mistrusting "Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 

(And Will's a true guid fallow's get 
, A name not envy spairges), 
That he intends to pay your debt> 

And lessen a' your charges ; 
But, G-dsakes, let nae saving fit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 
And boats this day. 

Adieu, my liege ! may freedom geek, 

Beneath your high protection ; 
And maj^ ye rax corruption's neck. 

And gie her for dessection ! 
But since I'm here I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty and subjection 

This great birth-day. 

Hail, Majesty most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye. 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies you ? 
Thae bonnie bairntime Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, till fate rome day is sent 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

For you, young: potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sailg, 

I'm told your driving rarely ; 
But some day you may knaw your nailsj 

And curse your felly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, 
By night or day. 



A DREAM. 195 



Yet aft a ragged cowte*s been known 

To mak a noble aiver ; 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver: 
Th-re, him at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver, 
And yet wi' funny, queer Sir John, 

He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day. 

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg 

Nane sets the lawn sleeve sweeter, 
Alt ho' a ribbon at your lug, 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog, 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! and get a wife to hug, 

Or, trouth, ye'll stain the mitre 
Some luckless day. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her : 
A glorious guUey, stem and stern, 

Weel rig'd for Venus* barter ; 
But first hang out that she* 11 discern 

Your hymeneal charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple airn, 

And, large upon her quarter. 
Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a'. 

Ye royal lassies dainty, 
Heav'n mak you guid as well as braw, 

And gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer na British boys awa*, 

For kings are unco scant eve, 
And German gentles are but sma*. 

They're better just than want aye 
On onie day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But ere the course o' life be thro\ 

It may be bitter sautet : 
And I hae seen their coggie fou 

That yet hae tarrow't at it; 
But or the day was done, I trow 

The luggen they hae clautet 
Fu* clean that day. 



196 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Is there a whim-inspir'd fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rul«^ 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snoolf 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 

That weekly this area throng. 

Oh, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs himself life's mad career. 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, thro' the starting teai; 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below. 

Was quick to learn, and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame ; 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And stain' d his name ! 

Eeader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soar's fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious self-control 
Is wisdom's root. 



€lrf €m Sngs. 

A TALE. 

*Twa8 in that place o' Scotland's isle 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing through the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame. 
Forgather' d ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him CsBsar, 
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure ; 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Show'd he was nanc o* Scotland's dogs ; 



TWA DOGS. 

Bat whelpit some place far abroad, 
WTiare s^ors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, leather'd, braw brass collar 

h^how'd him the gentleman and scholar 

But though he was o' high degree, 

The fient a pride — nae pride had he ; 

But wad hae spent an hour caressin', 

E'en wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messin'. 

At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 

Nae taw ted tj^ke, though ere sae duddie, 

But he wad stant, as glad to see him. 

And stroam't on stanes and hillocks wi' him, 

The tither was a ploughman's colhe, 

A rhyming, ranting, raving bilhe, 

Wha for his friend and comrade had him, 

And in his fi-eaks had Luath ca'd him. 

After some dog in Highland sang 

Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash and faithful tyke, 

As ever lap or sheugh or dyke. 

His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 

Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 

His breast was white, his tonzie back . 

Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 

His gaucy tail, wi' upward curl. 

Hung o'er his hm'dies wi' a swirl. 

Nae dou])t but they were fain o' ither, 

And unco pack and thick thegither : 

Wi' social nose whyles snufF'dandsnowkit. 

Wlij^les mice and moudieworts they howkit , 

Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion. 

And worried ither in diversion ; 

Until wi' daffin' weary grown. 

Upon a knowe they sat them down, 

And there began a lang digression 

About the lords o' the creation. 



I've aften wonder 'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' hfe poor dogs like you have ; 
And when the gentry's Hfe I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stenti 
He rises when he likes himsel ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse: 
H • draws a bonnie silken purse, 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks 
The yellow-letter'd Geordie keeks. 

s3 



197 



198 BUENS'S POETICAL W0EK8. 

Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frj^ing, boiling ; 
And though the gentry first are stetchin, 
Yet e'en the ha' folk hU their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie i 
That's httle short o' downright vvastrie. 
Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eat a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His hanour has in a' the Ian' ; 
And what poor cot-folk pit their paincli in, 
I own its past my comprehension. 



Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash enough ; 

A cotter howkin' in a sheugh, 

Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, 

Baring a quarry, and sic Hke; 

Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 

A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, *' 

And nought but his han' dark to keep 

Them right and tight in thack and rape. 

And when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
And they maun starve o' cauld or hunger j 
But how it comes I never kenn'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented : 
And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies. 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

OiBSAB. 

But then to see how ye're negletit, 
How hufF'd, and cuff' d, and disrespeckit ! 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For del vers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
As I would by a stinkfn' brock. 
I've notic'd, on our laird's court-day, 
And mony a time my heart's been war, 
}\)or tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash ; 
He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear, 
He'll apprehend them, pound their gear : 
While they maun stan', wi* aspect humble, 
And hear it a', and fear and tremble ! 
I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But ^urely poor folk maun be wretches 1 



TSE TWA DOGS. 100 

LXJATH. 

Tliey're no sae ^v^etched's ane may think ; 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink ; 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 
Tlien chance and fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
And tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A bhnk o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their Hves, 

Their grushie weans and faithfu' wives ; 

Tlie pratthng things are just their pride, ^ 

That sweetens a' their fireside ; 

And whyles twalpennie- worth o' nappy 

Can make the bodies unco happy; 

They lay aside their private cares, 

To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 

They'll talk o' patronag-e and priests 

VVf kindling fury in tbp.ir breasts : 

Or tell what new taxation's comin'. 

And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns 
When rural life, o' ev'ry station, 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks. Wit slaps, and social Mi 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe and sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse. 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house-* 
My heart has been sae fain to see them. 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owi*e true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk. 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin*, 
For ikitain's guid his saul indentin'— 



200 BURNB'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

C-SSAB. 

Haith, lad, j^e little ken about it ; 

For Britain's guid ! guid faith, I doubt it. 

Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 

And saying ay or no's they bid him : 

At operas and plays parading, 

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading : 

Or may be, in a frolic daft, 

To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 

To mak a tour and tak a whirl. 

To learn boii ton, and see the worl'. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 

He rives his father's auld entails ; 

Or by Madrid he takes the route, 

To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowte; 

Or down Italian vista startles, 

W — re hunting amang groves o' myrtles ; 

Then bouses drumly German water, 

To mak himsel look fair and fatter. 

And clear the consequential sorrows, 

Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. 

For Britain's guid ! — for her destruction ! 

Wi* dissipation, feud, and faction. 



Ilecli, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten and harass'd 
For fear to gang that gate at last ! 

Oh would they stay aback frae courts. 
And please themselves with countra sports, 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better. 
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter ! 
For thae frank, rantin', rambling billies 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted follows ; 
Except for breakin' o' their timmer, 
Or speaKing lightly o' their limmer. 
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock. 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me. Master Caesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? 
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, 
The vera thou^bt o't need na fear them. 



L — d, man, were ye but whvles whare I am. 
The gentles yo wae no'er envy 'em. 



THE TWA DOGS. 201 

it s true, they needna starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat ; 
Thej^'ve nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
And fill auld age wi' grips and granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themselves to vex them; 
And aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 

A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh; 
A country girl at her wheel, 
Her dizen's done, she's unco weel : 
But gentlemen and ladies warst, 
Wi' cv'n down want o' wark are curst, 
They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy ; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless ; 
And e'en their sports, their balls and races. 
Their galloping thro' pubHc places, 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, and art. 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sawther a' in deep debauches ; 
Ae night they're mad wi* druiK and wh-riniy, 
Neist day their life is past endming, 
The ladies, arm-in-arm, in clusters. 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o* ither. 
They're a^ run deils and j ads thegither. 
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup and platie. 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
O'er lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks, 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard, 
And cheat like onie xmhang'd blackguard. 
There's some exception, man and woman, 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
And darker gloaming brought the night ; 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan ; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoic'd they were na men, but dogs; 
And each took off his several way, 
Reeolv'd to meet some ither day. 



202 BUENS'S POETICAL WORIW. 

OCCASIONBD BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUB 

OP A friend's amour. 

" Alas ! how oft does goodness wound itself! 
And sweet affection prove the spring of woe ! " 

aoMM. 

Oh thou pale orb, that silent shines, 

WTiile care-unti'oubled mortals sleep ! 
Tliou seest a wretch who inly pines, 

And wanders here to wail and weep ! 
With woe I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam ; 
And mourn, in lamentation deep, 

How life and love are all a dream. 

I joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly marked distant hill 5 
I joyless view thy trembling horn, 

Keflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace ? 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

^ly sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft-attested Pow'rs above ; 
The promis'd father's tender name ; 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

Encircl'd in her clasping arms. 

How have the raptur'd moments flown ; 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and her's alone ! 
And must I think it — is she gone. 

My secret heart's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless hear my groan P 

And is she ever, ever lost ? 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart. 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

Tlio pli^^hted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path ma}' be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress I 
Then who her pangs and pains will soothe. 

Her sorrows share, and make them less ? 



ULMENT. 208 

f e winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly treasur'd thoughts employed. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy 'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

The mom that warns th' approaching day 

Awakes me up to toil and woe : 
I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train, 
Must ring my soul, ere Phoebus, low. 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief. 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard- wild, in sore affiright : 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings rehef. 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

Oh ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expansa^ 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway. 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly- wand' ring, stray I 
The time, unlieeded, sped away. 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high. 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set; 

Scenes never, never to return ! 
Scenas, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joj^ and pleasure torn. 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro'; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



itoss tn iimliiirgfr. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'ri^ 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray 'd. 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



204 BUENS'S POETICAL W0EK9. 

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy Trade his labour pHes ; 
There Architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here Justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod; 
There Learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Edina ! social, kind. 

With open arms, the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources faill 

And never envy blot their name ! 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, 

Gray as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adorning eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shme; 
I see the Sire of Love on high, 

And own His work indeed divine ! 



There, watching high the least alarms. 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar. 
Like some bold vet'ran, grey in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seaming scar : 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, 
Have oft withstood the assaihng war. 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home : 
Alas, how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race, wild-wand'ring, roam 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore. 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Kv'u I, who sing in rustic lore. 

Haply, my sires have left their shed, 
A nd fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold-following where your fathers led 1 



THE BBiaS OF AYB. 206 



Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath the monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



IKSCEIBED TO JOHN BALLANTTNE, ESQ., AYB. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 

Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough j 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. 

Hailing the setting sun, sweet in the green-thorn bush ; 

The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, 

Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild- whistling o'er the hill; 

Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 

To hardy independence bravely bred, 

By early poverty to hardship steel'd, 

And train'd to arms in stem misfortune's field — 

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. 

The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 

Or labour hard the panegyric close, 

With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ? 

No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, 

He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 

Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward ! 

Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, 

Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace ; 

When Ballantyne befriends his himible name, 

And hands the rustic stranger up to fame. 

With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells, 

The god-like bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, 
And thack ond rape secure the toil-worn crap ; 
Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs, delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek ; 
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded conveys, reeling, scatter wide; 



206 BURNS'S POETICiX WOEES. 

The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, 

Sires, mothers, children, in one carna^re lie ; 

(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 

And execrates man's savage ruthless deeds !) 

Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs ; 

Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 

Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee. 

Proud o' the lieight o' some bit half-lang tree : 

The hoary moms precede the sunny days, 

^lild, calm, serene, wide-spreads the noon -tide blaze, 

While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays. 

'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 

Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 

Ae night, within the ancient burgh of Ayr, 

By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care, 

He lett his bed, and took his wayward route. 

And do\vn by Simpson's wheel'd the left about : 

(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate 

To witness what I after shall narrate ; 

Or whether, rapt in meditation high, 

He wander'd out he knew not where or why) 

The drowsy Dungeon-clock had number'd two, 

And Wallace Tower had sworn the fact was true : 

The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen, sounding roar, 

Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore. 

All else was liush'd as Nature's closed e'e : 

The silent noon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : 

The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 

Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. 

When To ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 

The clanging sugh of whisthng wings is heard ; 

Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air, 

Swift as the gos drives on the wheeling hare ; 

Ane on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears. 

The itlier flutters o'er the rising piers : 

Our warlock Rhymer instantly decry 'd 

The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 

(That bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 

And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 

Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them, 

And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them,) 

Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, 

The very wrinkles Gothic in his face; 

He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang. 

Yet teughly dourt, he bade an unco bang. 

New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat. 

That he at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got ; 

In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 

Wi* virls and whirlygigiims at the head. 

The Goth was stalking round with anxious search| 

Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch j — 



THE BEIGS OP ATE. 207 

It clianc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his moodish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this good e'en : — 

AULD BEIG-. 

I doubt na*, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheepshank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ! 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith, that day I doubt ye'll never see ; 
There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle. 
Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BEia. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, 
Whare twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet— 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and Ume, 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste wou'd tak the Ducat stream 
Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim. 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view 
Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. 

ATTir BEia. 

Conceited gowk ! puiFd up wi* windy pride — 
This many a year I've stood the flood and tide ; 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye'se a shapeless cairn ; 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa- three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course. 
Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotting thowes, 
In mony a torrent down his snaw-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams and mills, and brigs, a' to the gate ; 
And from Glenbuck down to the Ratton-key, 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea — ■ 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumliejaups up to the pouring skies. 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BEIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't I 
The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate o*t I 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices. 
Hanging with threat'ning jut like precipices; 



208 BUENS'S POETICAX WOBKS. 

e'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring covee, 

Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 

Windows and doors in nameless sculpture drest, 

With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 

Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, 

The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 

Fonns might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, 

And still the second dread command be free, 

Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. 

Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 

Of any mason reptile, bird, or beast ; 

Fit only for a doited monkish race, 

Or fi-osty maids forsworn the dear embrace ; 

Or cuifs of latter times wha held the notion 

That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 

Fancies that our good Brugh denies protection, 

And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection I 

AULD BEIG. 

Oh ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, 
Were ye but hereto share my wounded feelings ! 
Ye worthy Proveses, and mony a Bailie, 
Wha in thy paths o* righteousness did toil aye ; 
Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ; 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town. ; 
Ye godly brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly ga'e your hurdies to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange,) ye godly writers ; 
A* ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo. 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And agonizing curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Nae longer rev 'rend men, their country's glory, 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain, braid story ! 
Nae longer thrifty citizens and douce. 
Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry, 
The heiTyment and ruin of the country ; 
Men, three parts made by tailors and by barbers, 
Wlia waste your weel-hain'd gear on d — d new Brigs 
and Harb()urs I 

NEW BEIG. 

Now baud you there ! for faith you've said enough. 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through ; 
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But, under favour o' your langer beard. 
Abuse 0* Magistrates might weel be spor'd t 



THE BBIGS OF AYB. 2Q9 

To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 

I ueed5 must say, comparisons are odd. 

In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can have a handle 

To mouth " a citizen," a term o' scandal ; 

Nae mair the Council waddles down the street. 

In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 

Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops and raising, 

Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins, 

If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 

Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp, 

And would to Common Sense for once betray'd them. 

Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 



What further clish-ma-claver might been said, 
Wliat bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed. 
No man can teU ; but aU before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danc'd : 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd : 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
Wliile arts of minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 
Oh, had M^Lauchlan, thairm-inspiring sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with High- 
land rage ; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting air, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler tir'd. 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd! 
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard; 
H armonious concert rung in every part. 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. 

The Genius of the stream in fi'ont appears, 
A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lihes crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound : 
Next came the loveHest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet female beauty, hand in hand with Spring ; 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural .Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid, beaming eye : 
AU-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn, wi'eathed with nodding corn ; 
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show, 
By HospitaHty with cloudless brow. 
Next foUow'd Courage, with his martial stride. 
From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide i 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the towers of Stair ; 

U '8 



210 BTJENS'S POETICiX W0EZ8. 

Learning and Worth in equal measnres trode, 

From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode ; 

Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wi*eath, 

To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 

The broken iron instruments of death ; 

At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. 



A. GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOE HIS HONOUBt 
IMMEDIATELY EEOM ALMIGHTY GOD. 

** Should the poor be flattered ? " — Shakspbaeb. 

But now his radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's course was bright ; 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, heavenly light ! 

Oh Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ; 

The meikle devil wi' a woodie 

Haurl thee harae to his black smiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And Hke stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd ! 

Ye hills, near neighbours o' the starns. 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns : 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of saihng yearns. 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers. 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens. 

Ye haz'ly shaws and briary dens. 

Ye bumies, wimpHn' down your glena^ 

Wi toddhn' din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin. 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea, 
Ye stately foxgloves, fair to see. 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnihe, 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye PDses on your thorny tree, 

The first of flowerg. 



OH CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDEESOIT, Sll 

At dawn, when ev'ry glassy blade 

Droops with a diamond at its head, 

At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

I' th' rustUng gale, 
Ye maukins whidding through the glade. 

Came, join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling through a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood !— 

He's gane for ever. 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckl'd teala^ 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Eair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring crakes, at close o* day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay. 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell the far warlds, wha lies in clay. 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye owlets, frae your ivy bow'r, 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r. 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail through the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

Oh, livers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ? 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowshp cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, * 

Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear 

For him that's dead 1 

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair. 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear; 
Thou, Winter, hurhng thro* the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o*er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 



Ai2 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

Mourn Inm, thou sun, great source of light; 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starries bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 

Ne'er to return. 

Oh, Henderson ! the man — the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ? 
And liast thou cross'd that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ? ' 
Like thee where shall I find another, 

The world around ? 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger ! — my story's brief, 
And truth I shall relate, man : 

I tell na common tale of grief — 
For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 

Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man, 

A look of pity hither cast, 
For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art. 
That passest by this grave, man, 

There moulders here a gallant heart — 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways. 
Canst throw uncommon Hght, man. 

Here Ues wha vveel had won thy praise— 
For Matthew was a bright mau. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
Wad life itself resign man, 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa* — 
For Matthew was a kind man ! 

If thou art stanch without a stain. 
Like the unchanging blue, man, 

This was a kinsman o' thine ain— 
For Matthew was a true man. 



Ti.M O' SHA.NTEB. 213 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 

And ne'er guid wine d£d fear, man, 
This was thy billie, dam, and sire — 

For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin' sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man, 
May dool and sorrow be his lot ! 

For Matthew was a rare man. 



fern dO' ^IrKHter, 



** Of brownysis and of bogiKs, full is this buke/' 

Gi.WIN DOUOLAB. 

Whek chapman billies leave the street. 
And drouthy neighbours, neighbours meet, 
As market-days are wearing late. 
And folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
And gettin' fou' and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Wliere sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to ke^ it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonnie lasses). 

Oh Tam ! had'st thou but been sa wise. 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld the weal thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken, blellum: 
That frae November till October : 
Ae market-day thou was nae sober ; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on. 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday 
She prophesied, that, late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon, 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By AUoway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 



214 BUENS'S POETICi.L WOEKS, 

How mouy lengtlien'd sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ; 
But to our tale : — ae market night, 
Tarn had got planted unco right, 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
\Vi' reaming swats, that drank divinely , 
And 'at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; 
Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither — 
They had been fou' for weeks thegither ; 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, 
Aiid aye the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, 
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious, 
The Souter tauld his queerest stories, 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus ; 
The storm without might rair and rustle- 
Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ^ 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure. 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ! 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 

You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; 

Or like the snowfall in the river, 

A moment white — then melts for ever : 

Or like the borealis race. 

That flit ere you can point their place ; 

Oi* like the rainbow's lovely form, 

Evanishing amid the storm. 

Nae man can tether time or tide. 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast on ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in . 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last. 
The ratting show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow 'd, 
Ix)ud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow 'd : 
That night a child might understand. 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gi*ey mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Wliyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, 
Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scot's sonnet^ 



TAM O' 8HAI7TEB. 215 

Wliyles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Where ghaists and owlets nightly 013% 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Where in the snaw the chapman smooi-'d ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck bane ; 
And thro* the whins, and by the cairn, 
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel : 
Before him Boon pours all his floods ; 
The doubhng storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole, 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When glimmering thro' the groaning tree* 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspu'ing, bold John Barleycorn ! 

What dangers thou can'st make us scorn ! 

Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil ; 

Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil ! — 

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 

Fair play, he car'd nae deils a boddle. 

But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 

Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 

She ventur'd forward on the light ; 

And, wow, Tam saw an unco sight i 

Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 

Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels. 

Put Ufe and mettle in their heels : 

A winnock-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large. 

To gie them music was his charge ; 

He screw'd the pipes and garb them skirl. 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. 

Coffins stood round, like open presses. 

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 

And by some deviUsh cantrip slight 

Each in its cauld hand held a light — 

By which heroic Tam was able 

To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 

A thief, new cutted frae a rape, 

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ! 

Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 

Fire scymetara, wi' murder crusted ; 



fiW burns'b poetical works. 

A garter, which a babe had strangled, 
A. kuife a father's throat had mangled, 
Wliom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft : 
\Vi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu*. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, 
> The mirth and fun grew fast and furioua 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleeket 
Till ilka carline swat and reckit. 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark ; 

Now Tam, oh Tarn, had thae been queans, 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
}^en snaw- white seventeen-hunder linen ! 
Tl\eir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush o' guid blue hair, 
1 wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie hurdies ! 

But withered beldams, auld and droll, 

Ki§|>voodie hags, wad spean a foal, 

Louping and flinging on a cummock, 

1 wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what, fu' brawlie ; 

There was a winsome wench and walie, 

That night enlisted in the core, 

(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ; 

For mony a beast to dead she shot, 

And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 

And shook baith meikle corn and beer. 

And kept the country-side in fear,) 

Her cuttj' sark o' Paisley ham, 

That while a lassie she had worn. 

In longitude though sorely scanty, 

It was her best, and she was vauntie — 

Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 

That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 

Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a* her riches), 

VV^od ever grac'd a dance o' witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun coua 

Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 

To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 

(A souple jade she was and Strang,) 

And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd, 

And thought his very ecu enrich'd 

Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, 

4nd hotch'd and blew wi might and main t 



TEAGIC FRAGMEWT. 217 

Till first ae caper, syne anither. 

Tarn tint his reason a' thegither, 

And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark I" 

And in an instant all was dark : 

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 

When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 

When plundering herds assail their byke ; 

As open pussie's mortal foes, 

When pop ! she starts before their nose; 

As eager runs the market-crowd. 

When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud J 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' mony an eldritch screech and holloa. 

Ah, Tarn ! ah. Tarn ! thou'll get thy fairin* f 

In hell they'll roast thee Hke a herrin' 1 

In vain thy Kate awaits thy comiu' ! 

Kate soon will be a woefti' woman ! 

Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 

And win the key-stane o' the brig ; 

There at them thou thy tail may toss, 

A running stream they darena cross 1 

But ere the key-stane she could make, 

The fient a tail she had to shake I 

For Nannie, far before the rest, 

Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 

And flew at Tam wi' farious ettle. 

But Httle wist she Maggie's mettle — > 

Ae spring brought off her master hale, 

But left behind her ain grey tail; 

The carline caught her by the rump. 

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
nk man and mother's son take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think ! ye may buy the joys o'er dear — 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 



togir /ragntBEt 



All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 
A harden'd stubborn, unrepenting villain. 
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness ; 
And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs, 
I view the helpless children of distress. 
With tears indignant I behold th' oppressor 
Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction, 
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime* 
Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you ; 



218 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Ye whom the seeming good think sin to pity, 
Ye poor despis'd abandon'd vagabonds, 
Whom vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin, 
— Oh, but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends, 
I had been driven forth like you forlorn, 
The most detested, worthless wretch among yon 



Winter, a lirp^ 



Thb wintrj' west extends his blast, 

And hail aid rain does blaw ; 
Or the stormy north sends driving forth 

The Winding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 

" Tlie sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," 

The joyless winter day. 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join ; 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil. 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy wiU ; 
Then all I want (oh, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 



CNDEE THE PEESSUEE OP VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

On thou, Grreat Being ! what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 

Are all Thy works below. 

Thv creature here before Thee siands, 

AH wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those i'ls that wring ray soul 

Obey Thy high b hpst. 



STANZAS. 219 



Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
Oh, free my weary eyes from teari| 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must aflSicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolTe% 

To bear and not repine ! 



ON THE PROSPECT OP DEATH. 

Oh thou unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done. 

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me, 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And hst'ning to their witching voic-e 
Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside. 
Do Thou, All-good ! for such Thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 

Wliere with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But, Thou art good ; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



§>tU]M. 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene? 

Have I so found it fall of pleasing charms ? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between : 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing stormej 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod 



2^0 BUKNS'S POETICAL W0EK3. 

Fain would I sav " Foro:ive my foul offence ! ** 

Fain promise sever moie lo disobey ; 
But should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way : 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, } et to temptation ran ? 

Oh Thou, Great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that conti'oUing pow'r assist ev'n me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule theii* ton-ent in the hallowed line ; 
Oh, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! 



Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungr}^ stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him, 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, 
Except the moment that they crush't him. 
For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em, 

Tho' e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't em. 

And thought it sport. 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark. 

And counted was baith wight and stark, 

Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him, he was learned and dark, 

Ye roos'd him than I 



atlrf Calf. 



TO THE EEV. MK. JAMES BTEVBW. 

On his Text, Mal. iv. 2.— "And they shall go forth, 
and grow up, Hke calves of the stall." 

KiOHT, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For instimce, there's yoursel' just now, 

God knows, an unco calf! 



THE TWA HERDS. 221 



And should some patron be so kind. 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
*I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a stlrk. 

But, if the lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power 

You e'er should be a Scot ! 

1 vo', when some kind, connubial dear, 

\ our but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowte, 
Ft^vv men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the nowte. 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
W Injustice they may mark your head — 

" Here lies a famous bullock ! " 



OE, THE HOLY TULZIB. 

On a* ye pious godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks. 

About the dykes ? 

The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast. 
These five and twenty simmers past. 

Oh! dooltotell, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast 

Atween themsel. 

Oh, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, 
How could you raise so vile a bustle. 
Ye' 11 see how New-Light herds will whistle 

And think it fine : 
The L — 's cause ne'er got sic a twistle 
Sin' I ha'e mine. 

(\ Sirs ! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

u 3 



BUENS\ POETICAL WOUKS. 

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank, 
Sae h;ile and hearty every shank ! 
Nue p ison'd soar Arminian stank, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank— 

Oh sic a feast ! 

Tlie tliummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Well kenn'd his voice through a' the woodi, 
He smelt their ilka hale and rod, 

Baitli out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin » 

Wliat herd like Russell tell'd his tale, 
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, 

O'er a' the height, ♦ 

And saw gin they were sick or hale. 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 

Or nobly fling the gospel club, 

And New-Light herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin ; 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub, 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — Oh ! do I live to see't, 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
And names like villain, hypocrite. 

Ilk ither f;i'en, 
While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite^ 

Say neither's lyin' ! 

A* ye wha tent the gospel fauld. 
There's Duncan deep, a^xd Peebles shaul, 
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, 

We trust in thee. 
That thou wilt work them, het and cauld, 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset ; 
There's scarce a new herd that we get 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set 

I winna name ; 
I hope frae Heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

Dalrymple has been lang our fae, 
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae. 
And that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhke^ 

And baitli the Shaws, 
That aft ha*e made us black and blao, 

Wi' veiu;efu' paws. 



HOLT Willie's peateb. 223 

Auld Wodrow, lang has hatch'd mischief 
We thought aye death wad bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forbye turn-coats amang oursel. 

There's Smith for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, 

And that ye'll fin'. 

Oh, Si' ye flocks o'er a' the hills. 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Come, join j^our counsel and j'our skills 

^ To cowe the lairds. 
And get the brutes the powers themsles 
To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
Lnd Learning in a woody dance. 
And that fell cur called Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, 
M'Gill's close nervous excellence, 
Quhae's pathetic manly sense. 

And guid M'Math, 
Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glanc^ 

May a' pack aff. 



Oh Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleasest best thysel'. 
Send ane ta heaven and ten to hell, 

A' for Thy glory, 
And no for ony guid or ill 

They've done afore Thee ! 

I bless and praise Thy matchless might. 
When thousands Thou hast left in night. 
That I am here afore Thy sight, 

For gifts and grace, 
A bm*nin' and a shinin' light 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation, 
That I should get sic exaltation. 



224 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS* 

I who deserve sic just damnation. 
For broken laws, 

Five thousand years 'fore my creation, 
Thro Adam's cause. 

When frae my mother's womb I lell. 
Thou might hae plung'd me into hell. 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 

In burnin' lake, 
Where damned devils roar and yell, 

Chain'd to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample ; 

To show Thy grace is gi*eat and ample; 

I'm here a pillar in Thy temple, 

Strong as a rock ; 
A guide, a buckler, an example, 

To a' Thy flock. 

But yet, Oh Lord, confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust ; 
And sometimes, too, wi' wardely tru»t, 

Vile self gets in ; 
But Thou remembers we are dust, 

Defil'd in sin. 

* * 4t « # • 

Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn, 
Beset Thy servant e'en and morn, 
Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted ; 
If sae, Thy han' maun e'en be borne, 

Until Thou lift it. 

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place. 
For here Thou hast a chosen race : 
But God confound their stubborn face. 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 

And pubhc shame. 

Lord, mind Gaw'n Hamilton's deserts. 
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartoi^ 
Yet hae sae mony takin' arts, 

Wi' grat and sma*, 
Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts 

He steals awa'. 

And when we chasten'd him therefore^ 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 
As set the world in a roar 

O' laughin' at us ;— 
Curse Thou his bavsket and his store, 

Kail and potatoes. 



EPITAPH ON HOLT WILLIE. 225 

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, 

Against the Presb^ii'ry of Ayr ; 

Thy strong ri(rht hand, Lord, mak it bare 

Upo' their heads, 
Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 

Oh Lord, my God ! that ghb-tongu'd Aikin, 

My very heart and saul are quakin* 

To think how we stood groanin', shakin*, 

And swat wi' dread, 
While he wi* hingin' lips and snakin*, 

Held )ip his head. 

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him, 
Lord, visit them wha did employ him. 
And pass not in Thy mercy by 'em, 

Nor hear their pray'r ; 
But for Thy people's sake destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 

But, Lord, remember me and mine, 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine. 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Excell'd by nane, 
And a' the glory shall be thine, 

Ajnen! Amen! 



f liitapl nil inli{ Willih 

Heee holy Willie's sair-wom clay 

Taks up its last abode ; 
His soul has ta'en some other way, 

I fear the left-hand road. 

Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun. 
Poor, silly body, see him ; 

Nae wonder he' as black's the grun*, 
Observe wha's standing wi' him. 

Your brunstane devilship, I see, 
Has got him there before ye ; 

But hand your nine-tail cat a wee, 
Till ance you've heard my storj'. 

Your pity I will not implore, 

For pity ye hae nane ; 
Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o*er, 

And mercy's day is gaen. 

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are. 
Look something to your credit ; 

A coof Hke him wad stain your nama^ 
If it were kent ye did it. 
15 



226 BUENS'S POEEICAL WOEKS. 

^pistlB tn Inlm inttWi^, nf EilmHrEnrk, 

ON THK PUBIICATION OP HIS ESSAYS. 

Oh Goudie, terror of the Whigs, 
Dread of black coats and rev 'rend wigs, 
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin*, looks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor, gapin', glowrin' Superstition, 
Wae's me ! she's in a sad condition ; 
Fie ! bring Black Jock, her state physiciaq 

To see her water. 
A.las ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco ripple ; 
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel. 

Nigh unto death ; 
See, how she fetches at the thrapple. 

And gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 

Gane in a galloping consumption, 

Not a' the quacks, with a' their gumptioi 

Will ever mend her. 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption^ 

Death soon will end her. 

"lis you and Taylor are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief, 
But gin the Lord's ain fouk gat leave, 

A toom tar barrel 
And twa red peats wad send rehef. 

And end the quarrel. 



ENCLOSING SOME POEMS, 

Oh rough, rude, ready-witted Ranking, 
The wale of cocks for fun and drinkin*, 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin* 

Your dreams and tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin*, 

Straught to Auld Nick's. 

Ye hae sac mony cracks and cants, 
And in your wicked, drunken rants. 



THIED EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPEAIK, 227 

Te mak a devil o' the saunts, 

And fill them foil ; 
And then their faihngs, flaws, and wants, 

Are 2k seen throagh. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 

That holy robe, oh dinna tear it ! 

Spare 't tor their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Eives 't aflf their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing 
It's just the blue-gown badge and claitlung 
O* saints \ tak that, ye lea'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 
Like you or I, 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A* that I bargain'd for, and mair, 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang, ye'll sen't wi' canny care. 

And no neglect. 
• «###»« 



September 13, 1786. 

Good speed and furder to you, Johnny, 
Guid health, hale ban's and weather bonny, 
Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles afi" their legs. 
Sending the stuff o'er muirs and haggs 

Like driving wrack; 
But may the tapmast grain the wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, and skelpin at it, 

But bitter, daudin' snow'rs hae wat i^ 

Sae my aidd stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark. 
And took my jotteleg and whatt* it| s 

Like ony dark. 



22S BUEKS'S POETICAL W0EK8. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter. 
Abusing me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men, 
While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sel's ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wives and whisky stills. 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship, sir, I winna quat it. 

And if ye mak objections at it, 

Then han* in nieve some day we'll knot it. 

And witness take 
And when wi' usquebge we've wat it, 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Tin kye be gaun without the herd, 
And a' the vittel in the yard, 

And theekit right. 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspiring aqua vitas 

Shall make us baith sae blythe and wittjr 

Till ye forget ye're auld and gatty, 

And be as canty 
As ye were nine year less than thretty, 

Sweet ane and twenty ! 

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, 
And now the sinn keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest, 

And quat my chanter; 
Sae I subscribe myself in haste. 

Your's, Bab the Ranter 



September 17, l78fiw 

While at the stook the shem-ers cow'r, 
To shun the bitter, blaudin' show'r, 
Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r. 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 



EPISTLE TO THE BBV. JOHU M'MATH* 229 

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, and ban, and douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they should blame her, 
And rouse their holy thunder en it, 

And anathem lier. 

I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy. 
That I, a simple countra bardie, 
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi* a single wordie. 

Louse h — ^11 upon m«. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces, 
Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces. 
Their three-mile pray'rs and hauf-mile gracei 

Their raxin' conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gawn, miscat waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't him : 
And may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've use't himf 

See him, the poor man's friend in need. 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
And shall his fame and honour bleed 

By worthless skellums. 
And not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 

Oh, Pope, had I thy satire's darts. 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts. 

And tell aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts, 

To cheat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing I should b«p 
Nor am I ev'n the thing I could be. 
But twenty times I rather would bo 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be, 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glast^ 
An honest man may like a lass, 
But mean revenge and malice fameii 

He'll still disdain, 
And then cry zeal for gospel lawi^ 

Like some we ken. 



^30 BUBNS'S POETICAL WOBKt. 

Tliey take religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, and truth, 
For what ? — to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight, 
\ And hunt him down, o'er right and n-tn 

To ruin straight. 

All hail, Religion! maid divine! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line, 

Thus daurs to name thef ; 
To stigmatise false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tlio' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain. 
And far unworthy of thy train, 
With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those 
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes : 

In spite 0* crowds, in spite o* mobs, 
In spite o* undermining jobs. 
In spite 0* dark banditti stabs 

At worth andrit 
By scoundrels, ev'n wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spite. 

Oh Ayr ! my dear, my native ground, 
Within thy presbyterial bound 
A candid, lib'ral band is found 

Of pubhc teachers, 
As men, as Christians, too, renowned. 

And manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are named ; 

Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 

And some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, 

(Which gies you honour,) 
Ev'n, Sir, by them your heart's esteem' d. 

And winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 
And if impertinent I've been, 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd y«. 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



THE AMERICAN WAE. 231 

A. PEAGMENT. 

When Guildford good our pilot stood, 

And did our helm tliraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin'-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
And did nae less, in full Congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes 

I wat he was na slaw, man : 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn, 

And Carkton did ca', man; 
But yet, what reck, he, at QuebeCp 

Montgomery-Hke, did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his en'mies a', man. 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, 

Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowo 

For Philadelphia, man : 
Wi' sword and gun he thought a sin 

Guid Christian bluid to draw, man 
But at New York, wi' knife and fork, 

Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur and whip^ 

Till Frazer brave did fa', man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 
' In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Coruwallis fought as lang's he dought, 

And did the buckskins claw, man ; 
But Clinton's glaive, frae rust to save. 

He hung it to the wa', man. 

Then Montague, and Guildford, too. 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure^ 

The German Chief to thraw, man : 
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
And Charlie Fox threw hj the box, 

And lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 

Then Rockingham took up the game, 

Till death did on him ca', man; 
When Shelboume meek held up his cheeky 

Conform to gospel law, man. 



S89 BUBKS'S POETICAL WOBKS. 

Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise 
They did his measures thraw, man, 

For North and Fox united stocks, 
And bore liim to the wa', man. 

Then clubs and hearts were Charlie's cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa', man, 
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, 

Led him a sair^atu; pas, man ; 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads. 

On CJiatham's boy did ca', man ; 
And Scotland drew her pipe and blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a', man I " 

Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the class. 

Be-north the Roman wa', man ; 
And Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspir'd bardies saw, man,) 
Wi' kindling eyes cried, " WUlie, rise ! 

Would I hae fear'd them a', man ! " 

But, word and blow. North, Fox, and Co. 

Gk>wff'd Willie like a ba', man, 
TOl Suthron raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
And Caledon threw by the drone, 

And did her whittle draw, man ; 
And swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt and bloody 

To make it guid in law, man. 

« # * # # 



A BROTHER POET. 
AITLD NEIBOE, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair, 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle t 
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares. 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld gray hairg. ^ 

But, Davie, I'm red ye're glaikit; 
I'm tauld the muse ve hae negleckit ; 



TO EUIN. 23a 

And gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke j 
Sic hanns as you sud ne'er be faiket, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; 
Whyles daez't wi' love whyles daez't wi' drink 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
And whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen* me to the bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink. 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban. 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o'livin 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' ; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in. 

And while ought's there. 
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

And fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure. 
At hame, at fiel', at wark, or leisure. 
My Muse, poor hizzie I 
Tho' rough and raploch be her measure, 
She's seldom lazy. 

Hand to the Muse, my dainty Davie, 
The warl* may play you monie a shavie ; 
But for the Mnse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even the' limpin wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



®n Emu. 

All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word 

The mightiest empires fall! 
Thy cruel, woe-deUghted train. 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ! , 

For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring and pouring. 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Though thick'ning and black'ning. 
Round my devoted head. y 3 



234 BUENS'S POETICAIi WOEKB, 

And thou, grim pow'r, by life abhorred, 
While life a pleasure can afford, 

Oh hear a wretch's prayer ! 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 

To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace. 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease^ 
Cold mould'ring in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my Ufeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



^t first m %mn nf tlir 3Btotoiitlr f salo. 

Oh Thou, the First, the Greatest Friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has erer been 

Then- stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads, 

Beneath Thy forming hand. 
Before this ponderous globe itself 

Arose at Thy command ; 

That Pow*r which raised and still upholds 

This universal frame. 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years, 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before Thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv*st the word : Thy creature, man^ 

Is to existence brought ; 
Again Thou say'st, " Ye sons of men. 

Return ye into nought ! " 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood Thou tak'st them oflf 

Wy^ overwhelming sweep. 

The}» flourish like the morning flow'r 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long 'ere night, cut down, it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



TO A LOITSl. 



235 



% first f Mim. 



The man, in life wherever placed. 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way. 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish Hke the tree* 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds it guilty 
Shall to the ground ba cast, 

And, like the rootless stubble, tost 
Befroe the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest. 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



TO A LOUSE, 

OK SEEING ONE ON A LADt's BONNET AT CHUKCH, 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie I 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creeping, blastit wonner. 
Detested shunn'd, by saunt and sinner, 
How dare you set your feet upon her 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner 

On some poor body, 

fewith, in some beggar's hafFet squattle, 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle. 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now hand you there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rells, snug and tight; 



836 BURNS'S POETICAL WdRKS. 

Na, faith, ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

0' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth, right bauld ye set your nose out 
As plump and gi-ey as ony grozet ; 
Oh for some rank, mercurial roze^ 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't. 

Wad dress your droddum I 

I wad na been surpris'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's flannen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie ! 

How daur ye do't ? 

Oli, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
And set your beauties a' abread; 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin' ! 
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 

Are notice takin' ! 

Oh wad some power the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us ! 
It wad frae mony a blunder free us, 

And foolish notion ; 
What airs in dress and gait ^yad lea'e ufl, 

And ev'n devotion ! 



^i ^EHBEinrij. 



IH ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SUEVEYOB OF TWW 

TAXES. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list 
O' gudes and gear, and a' my graith, 
To which I'm clear to gie my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I have four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew afore a pettle. 
My ban' afore's a gude auld has-been 
And wight and winfu' a' his days been. 
My ban' ahin's a weel-j^aun filly. 



THE INVENTORY. 237 

Bnt ance, whan in my wooing pride^ 
I like a blockhead boost to ride, 
The wilfa' creature sae I pat to, 
(li — d pardon a' my sins and that toof) 
I play'd my filly sic a shavie, 
She's a'bedevird with the spavie. 
My for amn's a wordy beast, 
As e'er in tng or tow was traced. 
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, 
A d — n'd red wud KUburnie blastie ! 
Forbye a cowte o' cowtes the wale, 
As ever ran afore a tail. 
If lie be spar'd to be a beast, 
He'U draw me fifteen pun' at least- 
Wheel caniages I hae bnt few. 
Three carts, and twa a feckly new ; 
Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spin'le, 
And my auld mither brunt the trinle. 

For men, IVe three mischievous boys. 
Run deils for rartin' and for noise ; 
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t' other. 
Wee Davock bauds the nowte in fother, 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
And aften labour them completely; 
And aye on Sundays duly, nightly, 
I on the Questions targe them tightly I 
Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg. 
Though scarcely langer than your leg. 
Hell screed you aff Effectual Calling, 
As fast as ony in the dwaUing. 
I've nane in female servan' station, 
(L — d keep me aye frae a' temptation I) 
1 hae nae wife — and that my bliss is. 
And ye have laid nae tax on misses ; 
And then, if kirk folk dinna clutch me, 
1 ken the devils dare na touch me. 
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted. 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddy in her face, 
Enough of aught ye like but grace ; 
But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, 
I've paid enough for her already, 
And gin ye tax her or her mither, 
B' the L — d, ye'se get them a' thegithw. 

And now remember, Mr. Aikin, 
Nae kind of license out I*m takin* ; 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 



BUENSS POETICAL WO^RKS. 

My travel ae on foot I'll shank it, 
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit, 
Sae dinna put me in your buke, 
Nor for my ten white shillings luke. 

This list wi* my ain hand I've wrote it. 
The day and date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subserijpsi huic, 

Robert Busies. 

Uo8sgie\ February 22, 1786. 

% 3Kate tn &mi imiltnn 

MAUCHLINE, 
(eecommending- a boy), 

Mossgiel, May 3, 178d 

I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty, 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias Laird M'Graun, 
Was here to hire yon lad away, 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 

And wad hae don't aiT han' ; 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As, faith, I muckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin out auld Crummle's nicks, 
And tellin* Ues about them : 
As heve then, I'd have then, 

Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted other where. 

Altho* I say't, he's gleg enough, 

And 'bout a house that's rude and rough. 

The boy might learn to swear ; 
But then wi' you he'll be sae taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I havena ony fear. 

Ye'll catechise him every quirk, 

And shore him weel wi' hell ; 

And gar him follow to the kirk— 

— ^Aye when ye gang yoursel. 

K ye then maun be then 

Frae hame this comin' Friday, 
Then please. Sir, to lea'e, Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I hae gien, 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, 



WILLIB CHALMEBS. 239 

To meet the world's worm ; 
To try to get the twa to gree, 
And name the airless and the fee. 

In legal mode and form : 
I ken he weel a snick can draw. 
When simple bodies let him ; 
And if a devil be at a/ 
In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you, and praise yon, 
Ye ken your Laureat scorns ; 
The pray'r still, you share still, • 

Of grateful Minstbel Burns. 



^illiB Cftalram. 



Wi* braw new branks in mickle pride. 

And eke a braw new brechan, 
My Pegasus I'm got astride, 

And up Parnassus pechin ; 
Whyles owre a bushwi' downward cruaL 

The doited beastie stammers ; 
Then up he gets and off he sets 

For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 

I doiibt na, lass, that weel-kenn*d name 

May cost a pair o' blushes ; 
I am nae stranger to your fame, 

Nor his warm, urged wishes. 
Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet. 

His honest heart enamours. 
And faith ye'U no be lost a whit, 

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. 

Auld truth herseF might swear ye're fair, 

^And honour safely back her. 
And modesty assume your ah:. 

And ne'er a ane mistake her : 
And sic twa love-inspiring een 

Might fire ev'n holy Palmers ; 
Nae wonder then they've fatal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na fortune may you shore 

Somemim-mou'd pouther'd priestifl^ 
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, 

And band upon his breastie : 
But oh 5" what signifies to you 

His lexicons and grammars ; 
The feehng; heart's the royal blue, 

And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 



240 BUBNS'S POETICAL WOBKS« 

Some gapin*, glowrin*, countra laird 

May warsle for your favour ; 
May claw his lug, and straik his beard, 

And hoast up some palaver. 
My bonnie maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers, 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 

' For ane that shares my bosom, 

Inspires my muse to gie'm his dues, 

For deil a hair I roose him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon, 

And fructify your amours, 
And every year come in mair dear 

To you and Willie Chalmers. 



£tos mritfeE ira e 5BHEk aSutr 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, 

Fell source o' a my woe and grief: 

For lack o' thee I've lost my lass, 

For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass, 

I see the children of affliction 

Unaided, through thy curs'd restriction : 

I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile 

Amid his hapless victim's spoil, 

And, for thy potence, vainly wished 

To crush the villain in the dust. 

For lack o' thee I leave this much-loved 

shore. 
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 
R. B,— Kyle, 



Humid seal of soft affections, 
Tend'rest pledge of future bHss, 

Pearest tie of young connections, 
liove's first snow-drop, virgin kiss. 

Speaking silence, dumb confession, 
Passion's birth, and infants' play, 

Eteve-like fondness, chaste concession, 
Glowing dawn of brighter day. 

Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action. 

When ling'ring lips no more mu^t joini 

What words can ever speak affection, 
So thrilling and sincere as thine ! 



VERSES. 241 

^mn mritteti mki mM grirf. 

Accept the gift a friend sincere 

Wad on thy worth be pressing ; 
Remembrance oft may start a tear, 
But oh ! that tenderness forbear, 

Though 'twad my sorrows lessen. 

My morning raise sae clear and fair, 

I thought sair storms wad never 
Bedew the scene; but grief and care 
In wildest fury hae made bare 

My peace, my hope, for ever ! 

You think I'm glad ; oh, I pay weel 

For a* the joy I borrow ; 
In sohtude — then, then I feel * 

I canna to mysel' conceal 

My deeply-rankUn' sorrow. 

Farewell \ within thy bosom free 

A sigh may whyles awaken ; 
A tear may wet thy laughin' e'e, 
For Scotia's sons — ance gay Hke thee — 

Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken ! 



LTIK& AT A. PEIEND's HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THB AUTHOE 
LEFT THE FOLLOWING 

In the Boom where he slept 

Oh Thou, dread Power, who reign'st above. 

I know Thou wilt me hear, 
When for this scene of peace and love 

I make my prayer sincere I 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 

Long, long be pleased to spare. 
To bless his filial little flock 

And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears. 
Oh, bless her with a mother's joys. 

But spare a mother's tears ! 

Their hope, their stay, their darhng youth. 

In manhood's dawning blush — 
Bless him, Thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a parent's wish ! 

16 ^ 



242 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 
With earnest tears I pray, 

Thou know'st the. snares on every hand- 
Guide Thou their steps alway. 

When soon or late they reach that coa»t. 
O'er hfe's rough ocean driven, 

May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, 
A family in heaven ! 



TO MR. M'ADAM, 

OP CEAIGEN-GILLAir. 

8iE, o*er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
" See wha taks notice o' the bard I " 

I lap and cry fu' loud. 

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 
The senseless, gawky million : 

I'll cock my nose aboon them a'— 
I'm roos'd by Craigen-gillan ! 

'Twas noble, Sir ; 'twas like yoursel*, 
To grant your high protection : 

A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well. 
Is aye a blest infection. 

Tho' by his banes, who in a tub 
Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 

On my ain legs, thro' dirt and dub, 
I independent stand aye. "^ 

And when those legs V> g^d, warm kal' 
Wi' welcome canna bear me ! 

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 
A barley-scone shall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

O many flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonnie lassies baith— 

I'm told they're loosome kimmers ! 

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an old man's beard, 

A credit to his country. 



""1 



LINES ON MEETING- WITH BASIL, LOED DAEE. 2 1-.'3 

lt:n'es on meeting with basil, lord daer, 

Tins wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Ehymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October, twenty-third, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
iSae far I sprachled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord, 

I've been at drucken writers' feasts, 
Kay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've ev'n join'd the honour'd jorum. 
When mighty squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord ! — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son ! 

Up higher yet my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord ! — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a'. 

As I look o'er my sonnet ! 

Bat, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
To show Sir Bardie's wiilyart glow'r. 

And how he star'd and stammerd 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks. 
And stumpin' on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 

I shdiug shelter'd in a nook, 
And at his Lordship steal't a look, 

Like some portentous omen : 
Except good sense and social glee. 
And (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the sjniiptoms o' the great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he. 
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughmaa. 

Tlien from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another; 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



i 



244 BURNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattliii' Willie, 
Though fortune's road be rough and hilly 
To ever^' fiddling, rhyming billie. 

We never heed, 
But take it like the nnback'd filly. 

Proud o' her speed. 

When idly goavan wliylea we saunter 
Yirr, fancy barks, awa we canter 
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter, 

Some black bog-hole. 
Arrests us, then the scathe and banter 

We're forced to thole. 

Ilale be your heart ! — hale be your fiddle ! 
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle. 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' this wild warl'. 
Until you on a crummock driddle 

A grey hair'd carle. 

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon 
Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tim*» 
And screw your temper pins aboon 

A fifth or mair. 
The melancholious, lazy croon 

0' cankrie care. 

May still your life, from day to day, 

Nae " lente largo " in the play, 

But " allegretto forte " gay, 
Harmonious flow 

A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey- 
Encore ! bravo ! 

A blessing on the clieery gang, 
W\m dearly like a jig or sang, 
And never think o' right or wrang 

By square and rule, 
13 ut as the clegs o' feeling stang 

Are wise or fool. 

I\ry hand-waled curse keep hard in chase 
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 

Their tuneless hearts ! 
May fireside discords jar a base 

To a' their parts ! 

But rx>me, your hand, my careless brither, 
r th' ither warl' if there's anither — 



EPISTLE TO ilAJOU LOGAN. &i5 

Aiid that there is I've little swither 

About the matter — 
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither ; 

I'se ne'er hid better. 

We've faults and fiiilings — granted clearly, 
We're frail, backshding mortals merely. 
Eve's bonny squad priests wyte them sheerly 

For our grand fa' ; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly — 

God bless them a' ! 

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, 
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers, 
The witching, curs'd, dehcious bUnkers 

Hae put me hyte. 
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, 

Wi' girnin' spite. 

But by yon moon ! and that's high swear in'. 
And every star within my hearin', 
And by her een wha was a dear ane ! 

I'll ne'er fcrget ; 
I hope to gie the jads a clearin' 

In fair play yet. 

My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 
111 seek my pursie whare tint it, 
Ance to the Indies I were wonted, 

Some cantrip hour, 
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, 

Then, vive V amour ! 

Faitcs mes ha-issemains respectueuses, 

To sentimental sister Susie, 

And honest Lucky ; no to roose you, 

Ye may be proud, 
That sic a couple fate allows ye 

To grace your blood . 

Nae mair at present can I measure 

And trowth, my rhymnin' ware's nae treasure 

But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, 

Be't hght, be't dark, 
Sir bard will do himself the pleasure 

To caU at Park. 

ROBEET BuR:*tS. 

Mossffiel, 30tJi October, 1786. 

w3 



246 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEFS. 

LAMENT. 

WEITTEN "WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE 
SCOTLAND. 

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the loue mountain straying, 
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly^ rave, 

What woes wring my heart while intently sm've}ii,g 
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave. 

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, 

'Ere )'e toss me afar from my lov'd native shore} ! 

AN'here the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vide, 
The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more. 

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, 
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave ; 

No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her. 
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave. 

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm ray breast, 
1 haste with the storm to a far distant shore ; 

Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, 
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 



ON A SCOTCH BAED. 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

A' ye, wha live by sowps o' drink, 
A' ye, wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye, who live and never think, 

Come, mourn wi' me ! 
Our billie's gi'en us a' jink, 

And owre the sea. 

Lament him a* ye rantin core, 
Wha dearly like a random-splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar 

In social ke}^ ; 
For now he's ta'en anithcr shore, 
And owre the sea ! 

The bonny lasses weel may miss hhn, 
And in their dear petitions place him : 
The widows, wives, and a' may bless hiud, 

With tearlu' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea. 



ON A SCOTCH BAKD. 247 

Oh, fortune, they ha'e room to grumble ; 
Hadst thou ta'en afl' some drowsy bumble, 
Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 

'Twad been na plea ; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble, 

That's owre the sea. 

Auld canty Kyle may weepers wear, 
And stain them wi' the saat, saut tear ; 
'Twill make her poor auld heart, I fear, 

In liinders ilee ; 
He was her laureat mony a year, 

That's owre the sea. 

He saw misfortune's cauld nor- west ; 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jiUet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 

So, took a berth afore the mast,. 

And owre the sea. 

To tremble under fortune's cummock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud, independent stomach, 

Could ill agree ; 
So row't his hurdles in a hammock, 

And owre the sea. 



He ne'er was gi'en to great misguiding. 

Yet coin his pouches wad na hide in ; 

Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding- 
He dealt it free : 

The muse was a' that he took pride in, 
That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel. 
And hap him in a cozy biel ; 
Ye'U find him a3'e a dainty chiel, 

And fou' o' glee ; 
He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, 

That's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhyme-compo.>ing biliie , 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But miiY ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'll toa^t ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea ! 



18 UURNS S POETICAL WOllKS. 

Written on the Blank: Leap of a Copt op thb 

PoiiMS, PEESENTED to an old SWEETIIEAIIT, 

TUEN Married. 

Once fondly lov'd and still remembered dear, 
Sweet early object of ni}' youthful vows, 

Accejit this mark of fiiendship, warm, sincere, 
Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. 

And when you read the simple artless rlij-mes, 
One friendly sigh for him — he asks no more. 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 
Oi* haply lies beneath tli' Atlantic roar. 



THE FAREWELL. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer, 
Or what does he regard his single woes ? 
I >ut when, alas ! he multiplies himself, 
^Vo dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair, 
'i\) those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon hiri 
'J\) helpless children ! — then, oh then ! he feels 
'j'lie point of misery fest'ring in his heart. 
And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. 
Such, such am I ! undone ! " 

Thomson's Edward and Meanora. 

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains 
Far dearer than the toriid plains. 

Where rich anana's blow ! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear, 
A brother's sigh, a sister's tear. 

My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
Farewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft 

Of my parental care, 
A faithful brother 1 have left. 
My part in him thou'lt share ; 
Adieu too, to you too, 

My Smith, my bosom fiien* ; 
When kindly you mind me, 
Oh tjien beliiend my Jean. 

What bursting anguish tears my heart I 
From thee, my Jenny, must I part ! 

Thou, weeping, answerest " No ! '* 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face, 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I for thy «ake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aikin dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu ! i 

I, with a nnich indebted tetir, j 

Shall still remember you I 



TO A HAGGIS. 249 

All hail then, the gale then, 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore ! 
It rustles, and whistles — 

I'll never see thee more ! 



TO A HAGGIS. 

Faie fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin' race ! 
Aboon them a' je tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm ; 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While through your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labour dight, 
And cut you up wi' read}^ slight. 
Trenching 3'our gushing entrails bright 

Like ony ditch ; 
And then, oh what a glorious sight, 

Wami-reekin', ricli ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch and strive 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guid man, maist like to rive, 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or Olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fincassee wad make her spew 

Wi' perfect scunner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dinner. 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 

As feckless as a \\4ther'd rash, 

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash. 

Oh how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 

The trembhng earth resounds his tread. 

Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle ; 
Ana legs, and arms, and heads will sii 

Like taps of thrissle. 



250 BUliNS S POETICAL ^YOKKS. 

Ye pow'rs, wlio mak mankind your care, 
And di:>li tlieni out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

Thatjaups in luggies! 
But, if ye wish her gratel'u' prayer, 

Gie her a Haggis. 



TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS. 
As a New-Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driven, 

And 3'ou, though scarce in maiden i)nmc, 
Are so much nearer Heaven. 

No gifts have I fi'om Indian coasts, 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts 

In Edvvdn's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 
But may, dear maid, each lover pro\e 

An Edwin still to you. 



TUNE — Gillicrankie. 

LORD ADVOCATE. 

He chench'd his pami)hlets in his list, 

He quoted and he hinted. 
Till in a declamation-mist. 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for't, he graiped for't. 

He land it was awa, man ; 
But what his common-sense came short, 

He eked out wi' law, man. 

MR. ERSKINE. 

Collected Harry stood a wee, 

Then open'd out his arm, man : 
His lordship sat wi' rucfu' e'e. 

And ey'd the gatliering storm, man ; 
Like wind-driv'n hail, it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a linn, man; 
The benc-h sae wise lift up their eyes, 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



TO THE GUIDWIFE OP WABTCHOPE KOUSE. 261 

TO THE GUIDWIFE OF WANCIIOPE HOU^E. 

•• My cantie, witty, rhymniiig ploughman, 

I haffiins doubt it is na' true, man, 

Thp.t ye between the stilts was bred, 

\Vi' ploughmen schooled, wi' ploughmen fed; 

1 doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge 

Either frae grammar-school or college. 

Guid trotli, your saul and body baith 

War better fed, I'd gie my aith. 

Than theirs who sup sour milk and parritch. 

And bummil through the single Carritch 

Whaever heard the ploughman speak, 

Could tell gif Homer was a Greek ! 

He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, 

As get a single line of Virgil. 

And then sae slee ve crack your jokes 

0' Wilhe Pitt and Charlie Fox : 

Our great men a' sae weel descrive, 

And how to gar the nation thrive, 

Ane maist wad swear ye dwelt amang them. 

And as ye saw them sae ye sang them. 

l)ut be 5'e ploughman, be ye peer, 

Ye are a funny blade, I swear ; 

And though the cauld I ill can bide, 

Yet twenty miles and mair I'd ride 

O'er moss and moor, and never grumble, 

Tliough my auld yad should gie a stumble, 

To crack a winter night wi' thee, 

And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee, 

Oh gif I kenn'd but where ye baide, 

I'd send to you a marled plaid; 

'Twad houd your shouthcrs warm and brail 

And douce at kirk or market shaw ; 

Fra' south as weel as north, my lad, 

A' honest Scotchmen loe the maud." 

I MIND it weel in early dath, 

When I was beardless, young, and blaite^ 

And first could thresh the barn ; 
Or baud a yokin' at the pleugh ; 
And tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Y''et unco proud to learn : 
When first amang the yellow cora 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing and dealing, 
The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, and haivers. 
Wearing the day awa^ 



252 BUCNS'S rOETICAL WOEKS. 

E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r — 
A wish that to my hitest hour 

Shall stronj^ly heave my breast — 
That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some uset'ii' plan or hcuk could make 

Or sing- a sang at least. 
The rough bm-r-thissle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, 
And spar'd the symbol dear : 
Xo nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot stiil, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right and v\Tang 

Wild floated in my In-ain ; 
Till on that hur'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core. 

She roused the forming sixain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle. 
Her witching smile, hei- pauk}'- een. 
That gart my heart-strings tingle • 
I fired, inspired, 

At every kindling keek, 
But hashing and dashing 
I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, 

Wi' merry dance in winter days, 

And we to share in common : 

The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, 

The saul o' life, the heaven below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name. 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
'I'liat ye're connected with her. 
Yq'yg wae men, ye're nae men 
That slight the lovely dears; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

I^or you, no bred to barn and bjTe, 
Wlia sweetly tune the Scottish IjTe, 

Thanks to you for yom* line : 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare. 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 
'Twad please me to the nine. 



PROLOGUE. 253 



I'd be mair vauntie o* my hap, 

Douce hingin* owre my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 
I'areweel then, lang heal then. 

And plenty be your fa*, 
May lo.ssos and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 



WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FEUGUSSON, THE 
POET, IN A COPY OP THAT AUTHOR'S AVOIIKS PRE- 
SENTED TO A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 

19, 1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man that can be pleasM, 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ! 
Oh thou, my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my el ler brother in the muses. 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate. 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



Snsrriptintt 



ON THE HEADSTONE OF FERGUSSON, 

Here lies 
Egbert Fergusson, Poet, 
Born, Sept. 5, 1751. 
Died, Oct. 15, 1774. 

No sculptured marble here, no pompous lay, 
'* No storied urn nor animated bust ; " 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



l^rnlngiiB, 



SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT* 

Monday, Uth A^Jnl, 1787. 

When by a generous public's kind acclaim, 
That dearest meed is granted — honest fame- 
When here your favour is the actor's lot, 
Nor even the man in private life forgot ; 

z 



254 BUII^'S'S POETICAL ^\'0IiK3. 

"Whfit breast so dead to heavn'ly Virtue's glow, 
But heaves impassion'd witii '^hv gratef\il throe. 

Poor is the task to please a barb'i*ous throng, 
It needs no Siddons' powers in Southern's song, 
But here an ancient nation fam'd afar, 
For genius, learning high, as great in war — 
Hail, Caledonia, name for ever dear ! 
Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear ! 
Where every science — every nobler art — 
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, 
Is known ; as grateful nations oft have found, 
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. 
Philosophy, no idle pedant dream 

Here holds her search by heaven-taught Keason's beam g 
Here nfstory paints, with elegance and force, 
Tbp nde of Empire's fluctuating course ; 
Ixfie Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan 
x4ind Harle}^ rouses all the god in man, 
When well-form'd taste and sparkUng wit unite 
With manly lore, or female beauty bright, 
(Beauty, where faultless sj-mmetry and grace, 
Can only charm us in the second place), 
W^itness my heart, how oft with panting fear 
As on this night, I've met these judges here ! 
But still the hope Experienoe taught to live, 
Equal to judge — j^ou're candid to forgive. 
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet, 
With decency and law beneath his feet ; 
Xor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name, 
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 

Oh thou dread Pow'r, whose empire-giving hand 
Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land I 
Strong may she glow with all her ancient tire! 
May every son be worthy of his sire ! 
Firm may she rise with generous disdain 
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain ! 
Still self-dependent in her native shore, 
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, 
Till fate the cmiain drop on worlds to be no morOi 



AxJLB chuckle Reekie's sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel-burnish'd crest, 
Naejoy her bonnie buskit nest, 

Can yield awa. 
Her darHng bird that she lo'es best, 

Willie's awa ! 



SPIS-Ae to WILLIA-BI CREECH* 

^'h Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' things an unco slight, 
Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight, 

And trig and braw ; 
Sut now they'll husk her like a fright— = 

Willie's awa 1 

The stififest o' them a* he how'd ; 
The bauldest o' them 2! he cowM ; 
They durst nae mair than he allowed, 

That was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd— 

Willie's awa 1 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, andfooI% 
IFrae colleges and boarding-schools, 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Willie's awa ! 

The brethren 0' the Commerce-Chaumer 
3»Iay mourn their loss wi' doleful clamour| 
He was a dictionar and grammar 

Among them a' : 
I fear they'll now mak mony a stammerf 

Willie's awa! 

Kae mair we see his leyee door 
S*hilosophers and poets pour, 
And toothy eritics by the score, 

In bloody raw ! 
The a^utant 0' a' the core, 

Willie's awa ! 

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, 
Tyler's and Greenfield's modest grace^ 
Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw ; 
They a^ maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 

^oor Bums — e'en Scotch drink canna quickca^ 
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, 
'Scar'd frae his minnie and the cleckin 

By hoodie-craw ! 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin'— 

Willie's awa ! 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd gimin' blellumj 
And Calvin's folk are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 

Willie's awa! 



S55 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS'. 

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped. 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks nov/ roaring red, 

While tempests blaw; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled— - 

Willie's awa ! 

May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach : 
And, lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw; 
When I forget thee, Willie Creech, 

Tho' far awa ! 

May never wicked fortune touzzle him ! 
May never wicked men bamboozle him I 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed New Jerusalem^ 

Fleet wing awa ! 



i>\i tju ifiitli nf #ir ^mu Mm\n folm 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare. 
Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave, 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air,. 
And hollow whistl'd in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 

Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train, 

Gr mus'd where limpid streams once hallo w'd well,- 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, 
The clouds, swift- wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky^ 

The groaning trees untimely shed their looks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east. 

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, 

In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast. 
And mix'd her wailings with the raging storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe. 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war ; 

Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd. 
That like a deathfiil meteor gleam'd afar, 

And brav'd the mighty monarchsof the world. 



ON SCARINO SOME WATER-FOWL IN 'LOCH-TURIT. 257 

** My patriot son fills an untimely grave ! " 
With accents wild and lifted arms, she cri^d. 
Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save 
Low hes the heart that swelled with honest pride! 

A weeping country joins a widow's tear; 

^^ The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; 

Ihe drooping arts surround their patron's bier • 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh, 

I saw my sons resume their ancient fire.; 
I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow : 

iiut ah ! h.ow hope is born but to expire I 
Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. 

^^y patriot falls, but shall he Ke unsung, 

VVhale empty greatness saves a worthless name? 
V ri^^ muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And tuture ages hear his growing fame. 

An^ I will join a mother's tender cares, 

Ihrough future times to make his virtue last: 

Ihat distant years may boast of other Elairs ! '» 
bhe said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast 



•€)a IrnriHg sDniB mto-Zninl in ITntlr-^imt 

A wild scene among the mils of Ochtertyre. 
Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
-For me your wat'ry haunt fors^ei 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature' s gif cs to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wavCp r 

Busy feed, or wanton lave ; > 

t)r beneath the shelt'ring rock. 
Bide the surging billows' shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race. 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below : 
Plumes himself in Preedom's pride 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 
The eagle from yon cliffy brow. 
Marking you his prey below. 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels ; 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heaven 

1^ ^% 



25B BXJRNS'S POETICAL WORK*. 

Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain^ 
In these savage, liquid plains. 
Only known to wand'ring- swains, 
Where the mossy riv*let strays, 
Far from human haunts and way& ; 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend.. 

Or, if man*s superior might 
Dare invade your native right. 
On the lofty aether borne, 
Man with all his powers you scorn ^ 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave. 
Scorn, at least, to be his slave. 



€^t WumW f ttitinn nf foxmt W^kt. 

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OP ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 
Emboldened thus, I beg you'll hear 
. Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

In fiaming summer pride, 
©ry-withering, waste my foamy streams^ 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly-jumpin', glowrin' trouts. 

That thro' my waters play. 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; \ 

If, haplcas chance I they linger lang, I 

I'm scorching up so shallow, : 

They're left the whitening stanes aman§>. j 

In gasping death to wallow. | 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, \ 

As poet Burns came by, ; 

That to a bard I should be seen j 

Wi' half my channel dry : | 

A panegyric rhyme, I ween, i; 

Even as I was he shor'd me ; f 
But had I in my glory been. 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. [ 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rock»>. [ 

In twisting strength I rin ; [ 

There, hig}i my boiling torrent smokesy f 

Wild roaring o'er a Imn : j 



"S'lIE -HUMBT.E PETITION OP ERtfAR WATEH, '2SB 

Ei>joying large each spring and wellj 

As* nature gave them me, 
I am, although I say*t mysel', 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my nohle master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow' ring trees 

And bonnie spreading bushes. 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks. 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober lav'rock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; ^ 

The gowdspink, music's gayest child. 

Shall sweetly join the choir. 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clea^,^ 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer. 

In all her locks of yellow. 

Tills, too, a covert shall insure 

To shield them from the storm, 
And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seatj 

To weave his crown of flow'rs : ■ i 

Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat j 

From prone descending show'rs. ] 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, j 

Shall meet the loving pair, i 

Despising worlds with all their wealth ; 

As empty idle care. ' 

The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arras 

To screen the dear embrace. ; 

Here, haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking dewy lawn. 

And misty mountain gray: 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam. 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, 
Kave to my darkly-dashing stream, 

Hoarse swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 

My lowly banks o'erspread. 
And view, deep-bending in the pool. 

Their shadows' wat'rv bed ! 



260- BURNS^S POETICAL WORKS* | 

Xet fr. I grant birk^ in woodbines dresty i 

;^[y ornggy cliffs adorn ^ ? 

And, ^Dr the little soDg>ter*s n6sty l 

Tlc close embowering thorn. r 

I \ 

I So may old Scotia's darling hope, ,f 

i Your little angel band, \ 

[ Spring, like their fathers, up to prop \ 

j ^ Their honour'd native land I \ 

j So may, thro* Albion's furthest ken^ | 

j To social flowing glasses, I 

f The grace be — ** Athole's honest men^ j 
; And Athole's bonnie lasses t " 



€^ Mtmit 



ITKITTEW ON A MARBLE SIDEBOARD, IN THE HKRMITAfJS 
; BELONGING TO THE DUKE OP ATHOLE, IN TliK WOQB 

• ©F ABERFELDY. 

I "Whoe'er thou art these lines now reading, 

1 Think not, tho* from the world receding, 

\ I joy my lonely days to lead in 

I This desert drear : 

j That fell remorse, a conscience bleeding, 

[ Hath led me here. 

I No thought of guilt my bosom sours ; 

I Free-will'd I fled from courtly bowers ; 

! For well I saw in halls and towers 

; That lust and pride, \ 

The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powers, [ 

« In state preside. * 

i I saw mankind with vice incrusted ; 

I I saw that honour's sword was rusted ; j 

^ That few for aught but folly lusted ; ; 

1 That he was still deceiv'd who trusted i 

[ To love or friend : j 

I And hither came, with men disgusted, j 

My life to end. i 

In this lone cave, in garments lowly [ 

Alike a foe to noisy folly. 

And brow-bent, gloomy melancholy, 

I wear away 
My life, and in my ofiico holy 

Consume the day. 

This rock my shield, when storms are blowing, 
The limpid streamlet, yonder flowing, 



— J 



261 



Supplying drink, the earth bestowing 

My simple food ; 
But few enjoy the calm I know in 

This desert wood. 

Content and comfort bless me more in 

This grot, than e'er I felt before in 

A palace — and with thoughts still soaring 

To God on high, 
Each night and morn, with voice implorinjf, 

This wish I sigh. 

" lict me, oh Lord ! from life retire, 
Unknown each guilty, worldly fire, 
Remorse's throb, or loose desire ; 

And when I die, 
Let me in this belief expire — 

To God I fly." 

Stranger, if full of youth and riot. 
And yet no grief has marr'd thy quiet 
Thou haply throw'st a scornfid eye at 

The heraiit's prayer — 
But if thou hast good cause to sigh at 

Thy fault or care — 

If thou hast known false love's vexation, 
Or hast been exil'd from thy nation. 
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation, 

And makes thee pine, 
Oh ! how must thou lament th}- station, 

And envy mine ! 



WEITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNET-PIECU 

IN THE PAELOTJK OF THE INN AT KENAIORE, 

TAYMOUTH. 

Admieing Nature, in her wildest grace. 
These nothern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep. 
Til' abodes of covied grouse and timid sheep. 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue. 
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. 
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides. 
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their auiple sides ; 
I'll' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills. 
The (.'ye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The 1'ay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace, rising on its verdant side; 



262 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste; 
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste; 
The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
The village glittering in the noontide beam — 

# ^ * # 
Poetic ardours in nij' bosora swell, 

Lone wandering by the hermit's moss\' cell : 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 

The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods^ 

* ^ * ' * 
Here Poesy might wake her Heav'n-taught 1}to, 
And look through nature with creative tire ; 
Here, to the wrongs cf fate hali'reconcird; 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely boauds. 
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wouikU : 
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan 
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



e\m Dtt ttiE DfHtti iif Inil l^rtsilmit DuHiisi 

Lone on the bleaky hills the stra3nng flocks 
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks ; 
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rair.s, 
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains ; 
I^eneath the blasts the leafless forests groan ; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, 
Ye howling winds, and wintr}^ swelling waves ! 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar, 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 
Oh heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! 
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! 
Justice the high vicegerent of her God, 
}Ier doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod ; 
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow, 
She sank, abandon'd to the wildest woe. 
Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome deu, 
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men : 
See from his cavern grim Opprassion rise, 
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes ; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, 
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry. 

Mark ruffian Violence, disrained with crimes, 
liousing elate in these degenerate times ; 
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, 
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way: 



ON THE DEATH OP JOHN m'lEOD, ^iXt 

While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue 
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong ; 
Hark 1 injur'd Want recounts the unlisten'd tale. 
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours her unpitied wail ! 

Ye dark, waste hills, and brown unsightly plains. 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains ; 
The tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 

Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign. 
Be nameless wilds and lonely wand'rings mine. 
To mourn the woes my country must endm*e, 
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. 



VEESES 

YTRITTES -WHILE STANDINGI- BY THE FALL OP FYEKS, 
NEAK LOCH-NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods, 

The foaming Fyers pours his mossy floods. 

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds. 

Where, through a shapeless beach, his stream resounds. 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 

As deep-recoiling surges foam below, 

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends. 

And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. 

Dim seen, thro' rising mists and ceaseless show'rs. 
The hoary cavern, wide surrounding low'rs ; 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below the horrid cauldron boils — 



ON" BEADING- IN A NEWSPAPER 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ., 
Brother to a Young Lady, a particular friend of the Author, 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms — 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew. 

The morning rose may blow, 
But cold, successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. 



964 BUEIJS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 
The sun propitious smil'd, 

But long 'ere noon succeeding cloucU 
Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom cords 
That Nature finest strung ; 

So Isabella's heart was form'd. 
And so that heart was wrung. 

Were it in the poet's power, 
Strong as he shares the grief, 

Tliat pierces Isabella's heart. 
To give 'that heart rehei 

Dread Omnipotence alone 

Can heal the wound He gave — 

Can point the brimful, grief-worn eye« 
To scenes bej-ond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow 
And fear no with'ring blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last 



Sheewd Willie Smelhe to Crochallan came, 
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night 
His uncomb'd grizzly locks, wild staring, thatch'd 
A head for thought profound and clear unmatch'd ; 
Yet though liis caustic wit was biting, rude^ 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



ADDRESS TO MR WM. TYTLER, 

With the present of 'the JBard^s Ficture, 

Beveeend defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once ix^spected — 
A name which to love was the mark of a true heart, 

But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. 

Though something like moisture conglobes in my eye, 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor, friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fatliers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son. 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 



ON MISS CKITIKSHANKS, 26S 

Still in prayers for King George I most Leartily join, 

The Queen, and the rest of the gentiy, 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine j 

Their title's avowed by my country. 

But why of that epocha make such a fusSy 

That gave us the Hanover stem ; 
If bringing them over was lucky for us, 

I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them. 

But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 

Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 
The doctrine to-day, that is loyalty somid, 

To-morrow may bring us a haltei ! 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard. 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye. 

And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky. 

Your com'se to the latest is bright. 



% ^tott|. 



A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight : 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets. 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets, 
A man of fashion, too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive V amour ; 
So travelled monkies their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell. 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell I 
His meddhng vanity, a busy fiend 
StiU making work his selfish craft must mend. 



JL VERY TOUNG LADY. 

WBITTEK ON THE BLANK LEAP OF A BOOK PRESENTED 
TO HEB BY THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming in thy early May, 
Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r. 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ; 

Y 



^€ iJUilNS's POETICAL WOEK*. 

Never Boreas' lioary path, 
Never Eunis" poisonous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights I 
Xever, never reptile thief 
Kiot on thy virgin leaf! 
Kor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 

jMay'st thou long, sweet crimson gem. 
Richly deck thy native stem : 
'Till some evening, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings. 
And every bird *hy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy djing honours round. 
And resign to parent earth 
Tho lovehest form she e'er gave birth. 



In 6xtempnrB 6Mm, 

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE, 

Seakching- auld wives bjurels, 

Och hon ! the day ! 
That clartj- barm should stain my laurels ; 

But what'll ye say ? 
These muvin' things ca'd wives and weans. 
Wad muve the ver}^ hearts o' stanes ! 



a^D Clarink, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING GLASSEK 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 

And Queen of Poetesses ! 
riarinda, take this little boon. 

This humble pair of glasses. 

And fill them high with generous juice. 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast— 

*' The whole of human kind ! " 

** To those who love us ! " — second fill ; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Let us love those who love not us ! — 

A tliird— " To thee and me, love I ** 



EPISTLE TO HUGH PAUKER. 267 



ON" HIS LEAVING- EDINBURGH. 

ClaeindAj mistress of my soul, 
The measur'd time is run ! 

The wi'etch beneath the dreary pole 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Bepriv'd of thee, his Hfe and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part — but by these precious drop* 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Has blest my glorious day ! 

And shall a gUmmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



^ptlBtniugji farter. 

IN this strange land, this uncouth clime, 

A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; 

Where words ne'er crossed the muse's hecklei, 

Nor hmpet in poetic shackles ; 

A land that prose did never view it, 

Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it ; 

Here ambush'd by the chimla cheek, 

Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 

I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, 

I hear it — for in vain I leuk. 

The red peat gleams, a fiery kerenl, 

Enhusked by a fog infernal : 

Here for my wonted rhyming raptures, 

I sit and count my sins by chapters. 

For life and spunk like ither Christians, 

I'm dwindled down to mere existence ; 

Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, 

Wi' nae-kenn'd face but Jermy Geddes. 

Jenny, my Pegasean pride ! 

Dowie she saunters do\vn Nithside, 

And aye a westHn heuk she tlirows. 

While tears hap o'er he auld brown nose 

Was it for this, wi' canny care. 

Thou bure the Bard thro' many a shire? 



?^9 BURNS'S POTITICAL WOP.KS. 

At liowes or hillocks never stumbled, 

And late or early never grumbled ? 

Ob, bad I povve"?". bke inclination, 

I'd heeze tliee up a constellation. 

To canter witb the Sagitarre, 

Or loup tbe ecliptic like a bar ! 

Or turn tbe pole like any arrow ; 

Or, when anld Phoebus bids good-morrow, 

Down the zodiac urge the race, 

And cast dirt on his godship's face ; 

For I could lay my bread and kail 

He'd ne'er cast salt upo' thy tail. 

Wi' a' this care and a' this gnef. 

And sma', sma' prospect of rehef, 

And nought but peat-reek i' my head. 

How can I write what ye can read ? 

Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 

Ye'll find me in a better tune ; 

But till we meet and weet our whistle, 

Tak this excuse for nae epistle. 

KOBEET BUENS 



WRITTEN 

IN FKIAES' CAESE nEEMITAGE, ON THE BANKS OP THB 
NITH. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in rnsset weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these maxims on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 

Sprung from night ; in darkness lost ,* 

Day, how rapid in its flight — 

Day, how few must see the night ; 

Hope not sunshine every hour. 

Fear not clouds will always lower. 

Happiness is but a name. 

Make content and ease thy aim. 

Ambition is a meteor gleam ; 

Fame, a restless idle dream : 

Pleasures, insects on the wing 

Hound Peace, the tend'rest flower of Spring. 

Those that sip the dew alone. 

Make the butterflies thy own ; 

Those that would the bloom devour, 

Crush the locusts — save the flower. 

For the futm-e be prepar'd. 

Guard wherever thou can'st guard ; 

But thy utmost duly done, 



2G9 



Welcome what thou can'st not shun. 
Follies past give thou to air, 
Make their consequence thy care : 
Keep the name of man in mind, 
And dishonour not thy kind. 
Reverence with lowly heart, 
Him whose wondrous work thou art; 
Keep His goodness still in view, 
Thy trust — and thy example, too. 

Stranger, go; Heaven he thy guide! 
Quoth the Beadsman on Nithside. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stele, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is hut a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour. 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love wdth sprightly dance^ 

Beneath thy morning star advance. 

Pleasure with her siren air 

l\Iay delude the thoughtless pair ; 

Let Prudence bless Enjojuient's cup. 

Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As the day grows warm and high. 

Life's meridian flaming nigh. 

Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 

Life's proud summits would'stthou scale 

Check thy chmbing step ela?te, 

Evils lurk in felon wait : 

Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold. 

Soar around each chffy hold, 

While cheerful peace, with linnet song, 

Chants the lowly dells among. 

As thy shades of ev'ning close, 

Beck'ning thee to long repose. 

As life itself becomes disease. 

Seek the chimney -neuk of ease ; 

There ruminate with sober thought, 

On all thou'st seen, and heard and wrq^ht 

And teach the sportive younkers rouna. 

Saws of experience, sage and sound. 

Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 

The grand criterion of his fate, 

Ts not — art thou high or low ? 

Die thy fortune ebb or flow ? 

Wast thou cottager or king ? 

Peer or peasant ? — no such thing. 

^3 



270 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Did many talents gild thy span ? 

Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 

Tell them, and press it on their miud. 

As thyself must shortly lind, 

The smile or frown of awful Ileavea 

To virtue or to vice is given. 

Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 

There solid self-enjoyment hes : 

That foolish, selfish, faithless ways 

Lead to the \\Tetched, vile, and base. 

Thns resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break ! 
TUl future life— futm-e no more — 
To hght and joy the good restore, 
To Hght and joy unknown before. 
Stranger, go ; Heaven be thy guide ! 
Quoth the Beadsman on Nithside. 



EXTEMPORE TO CAPTAIN PvIDDL^L, 

OP GLENEIDDLE, ON BETUKNING A NEWSPAPER. 

jEllisland, Monday J& vening. 

Your news and review, Sir, I've read thro' and tliro', Sii 

With httle admuing or blaming ; 
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 

No murders or rapes worth the naming. 
Our frieuds, the reviewei-s, those chippers and hewers, 

Arejudg(;s of mortar and stone, Sir, 
But o(meet or unmeet, in ^fabric complete, 

I'U boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 
My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness 

Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God I had one hke a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world, Sh-, should know it 1 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT, 

FOR THE DEATH OE HER SON. 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 
And pierc'd my darling's heart ! 

And with him all the joys are fled 
Life can to me impart. 

By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 
My age's future shade. 



ELECT. 27J 



The mother linnet in the braAC 
Bewails her ravish'd young ; 

So I, for my lost darhng's sake, 
Lament the hve-day long. 

Death ! oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 
JNow, fond I bare my breast, 

Oh, do thou kindly lay me low 
With him I love, at rest ! 



On the Yeah 1788. 

Foe lords r kings I dinna mourn, 
h en let them die— for that they're born : 
But oil, prodigious to reflec' ! 
A towmont. Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
Oh, Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
Wliat dire events ha'e taken place ! 
Vt what enjO}Tnents thou hast reft uj^ ; 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a head, 
And my old teethless Bawtie's dead; 
ihe tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt and Fox 
And our guid wife's wee birdie cocks ; 
ihe tane is game, a bluidie de\il, 
but to the hen-birds unco civil : 
The tither's something dear o' treadin', 
but better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden, 
le ministers, come mount the pu'pit, 
Ana cry till ye be hoarse or roupit 
1^ or Eighty-eight he wish'd you weo3, 
And gied you a' baith gear and meal ; 
E en mony a plack, and mony a peck, 
le ken yoursels, for Httle feck ! 

Up bonnie lasses, dight your e'en, 
h or some o' you ha'e tint a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en, 
W hat ye 11 ne'er ha'e to gie a^ain. 
Observe the very nowte and sheep, 




idry. 

Oh Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn. 

And no owro auld, I hope, to learn I 

ihou hearaiess boy, I pray tak' care, 

Ihou now hast got thy daddy's chair 

Nae hand-cuff d, muzzi'd, hap-shackl'd Regent^ 



2Y2 BUKKtJS POETICAL \Y01lKS. 

But like liimser, a full, free agcut. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he (lid, honest man I 
As muckle better as ye can. 



My curse upon thy venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang, 
And thro' mv lugs gies mony a twangs 

\Vi' knawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves \vi' hitter pang, 
Like racking engmes ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee— thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ; 
I kick the wee stools o'er the niickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle. 

To see me loup ; 
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

O' a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stoolb, 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools- 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca'd hell, 
Whence a the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In di-eadfu' raw. 
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bed 

Amang them a' ! 

Oh, thou grim mischief-making duel, 
That gars the notes of discord squecl, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ! — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Toolhacbel 



lETTEE TO JAMES TENNANT. 273 

ODE, 

8ACEED TO THE MEMOET OF MES. OSWALD. 

DwELLEE in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation, mark ! 
Wlio in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with mihonour'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 



View the wither'd beldam's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? 

Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 

Pity's flood there never rose. 

See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save. 

Hands that took — but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo ! there she goes, unpitied and unblest 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest. 

ANTISTEOPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 

(Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends ;) 

Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends, 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies : 

'Tis thy trusty, quondam mate, 

Doom'd to share thy fiery fate. 

She, tard}', hell-ward plies. 



And are they of no more avail, 

Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ? 

In other words, can Mammon fail. 

Omnipotent as he is here ? 

Oh, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 

While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! 

The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, 

Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. 



OP GIENCONNEE. 

AuLD comrade dear, and brither sinner, 
How's a' the folk about Glenconner ? 
How do you this blae, eastlin wind. 
That's hke to blaw a body blind ? 
For me, my faculties are frozen, 
And ilka member nearly dozen'd. 

18 



'^^ * BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

I've sent you liere, by Johnny Simson, 

Twa sage philosophers to ghmpse on :— 

Smith, \vi' his sympathetic feehng, 

And Iveid, to common sense appeaHng. 

Philosophers have fought and wrangled, 

And nieikle Greek and Latin mangled, 

Till \vi' their logic-jargon tir'd, 

And in the depth of science mir'd, 

To connnon sense they now appeal, 

What wives and wabsters see and feel. 

But, hark }'e, friend, I charge you strictly, 

Peruse them, and return them quickly, 

For now I'm grown sae cursed douce, 

I pray and ponder butt the house ; 

"My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin', 

Perusing Bun^^an, Brown, and Boston ; 

Till by-and-bye, if I hand on, 

I'll grunt a blouset gospel groan : 

Already I begin to tr}-- it, 

To cast my een up like a pyet, 

\Vlien b}^ the gun she tumbles o'er, 

Fluttering and gasping in her gore : 

Sae shortly you shall see me bright, ^ 

A burning and a shining hght. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 

The ace and wale o' honest men : 

When bending down ^vi' auld grey hairs, 

Beneath the load of years and cares. 

May He who made him still support him. 

And views beyond the grave comfort him. 

His worthy fam'ly, far and near 

God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ; 

M}' auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, 

The manly tar, my mason Bilhe, 

And Auchenbay, I wish him joy ; 

If he's parent, lass or boy, 

May he be dad, and Meg the mither. 

Just iive-and-forty years thegither ! 

And no forgetting wabster Oharhe, 

I'm told he offers very fairly. 

And, Lord remember singing Sannock, 

Wi' hale breeks, sexpence, and a bannock ; 

And next my auld acquaintance, Nanc}^ 

Since she is fitted to her fancy ; 

And her kind stars hae airted till her 

A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. 

My kindest, best respects I sen' it. 

To cousin Kate and sister Janet ; 

Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious, 

For, faith, they'll aibhns fin' them fashion.-?. 

And lastly, Jamie, for yoursel. 

May guardian angels tak a spell. 

And steer you seven miles south o' hell. 



A FEAGMENT. 276 

But first, before you see Heaven's glory. 
May ye get mony a merr}^ story, 
Mony a laugh and mony a drink, 
And aye enough o' needfu' cHnk. 

Now fare ye weel, and joy be wi' you, 
For my sake this I beg it o' you, 
Assist poor Simson a' ye can, 
Ye'll fin* him just an honest mau : 
Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter, 
Your's, saint or sinner, 

KOB THE EaI^TEB. 



£ /ragnreut, 



INSCEIBED TO THE BIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 

How virtue and vice blend their black and their white ; 

How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 

Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction— 

I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 

I care not, not I — let the critics go whistle ! 

But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory 

At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 

Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits ; 

With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong. 

No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; 

With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 

No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right ; — 

A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses. 

For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ? for as simple he looks. 
Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks, _ 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil. 
All in aU he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours, 

That, hke th' Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours; 

Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you know him ? 

Pull the string, ruling passion the picture wiU show him. 

What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 

One trifling particulax, truth, should have miss'd him. 

For, spite of his fine theoretic positions. 

Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities, each to its tribe, 

And think human nature they truly describe ; 

Have you found this or t'other ? there's more in the wind, 

As by one di-unken fellow his comrades you'U find. 

But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan. 

In the make of the wonderful creature call'd man. 



276 BUBNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 



LIMP BY ME, WHICn A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT. 

Inhuman man ! cm-se on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart. ^ 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field ! 

The bitter little that of life remains ; 

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest ; 

No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ; 

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 
The cold earth with thy blood}^ bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn ; 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewj" lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fat«, 



A SATIEE. 

Orthodox, orthodox, 
Wha beheve in John Knox, 

Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 
There's a heretic blast 
Has been blawn in the wast, 

That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac, Dr. Mac, 

You should stretch on a ra(;k, 
To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 

To join faith and sense 

Upon ony pretence, 
Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 
It was mad, I declare. 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 



_ 



THE KIEK'S ALAEM. 277 

Provost John is still deaf 
To the church's rehef, 
And crater Bob is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, 

Tho' your heart's like a child, 
And your life like the new-driven snaw, 

Yet that \vinna save ye, 

Auld Satan must have ye, 
For preaching that three's ane and twa. 

Kumble John, Rumble John, 

Mount the steps wi' a groan, 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 

Then lug out your ladle. 

Deal brimstone hke adle. 
And roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper James, Simper James, 

Leave the fair Killie dames. 
There's a hoher chase in your view ; 

I'll lay on your head. 

That the pack ye'll soon lead, 
For puppies like you there's but few. 

Signet Sawney, Signet Sawney, 
Are ye huirding the penny, 
Unconscious what evil await ; 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, 
Alarm every soul. 
For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld, 

There's a tod in the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk : 

Though ye do na skaith, 

Ye'll be in at the death. 
And if ye canna bite ye may bark, 

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, 

If for a saint ye do muster, 
The corps is no nice of recruits ; 

Yet to worth let's be just, 

Royal blood ye might boast, 
If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamy Goose, Jamy Goose, 

Ye ha'e made but toom roose. 
In hunting the wicked Heutenant ; 

But the doctor's your mark, 

For the L — d's haly ark : 
He has cooper'd and cawt a wrong pm lu't 

Poet Willie, Poet WiUie, 
Gie the Doctor a volley, 
Wi* your Liberty's Chain and your wit ; 



278 BUEXS'S POETICAL WOEES 

O'er Pegiisus' side 
Ye ne'er laid a stride, 
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he * * 

Andi'O Gouk, Andro Gouk, 

Ye may slander the book, 
And the book not the waur, let me tell ye ; 

Ye are rich and look big, 

But lay by hat and wig. 
And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, 

What mean ye, what mean ye ? 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 

Ye may ha'e some pretence 

To havins and sense, 
Wi' people wha ken ye no better. 

Irvine side, Irvine side, 

Wi' your tm'key-cock pride, 
Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 

Ye've the figm'e, 'tis true, 

Ev'n your faes will allow, 
And your friends they dare grant ye na« mair. 

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock, 

When the Lord makes a rock 
To crush Common Sense for her sins, 

If ill manners were wit, 

There's no mortal so fit 
To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will, HolyWiU, 
There was wit i' your skull. 

When ye pilfer'd the alms of the poor ; 
The timmer is scant. 
When ye're ta'en for a saunt, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, 

Seize your spir'tual guns, 
Ammunition you never can need ; 

Your hearts are the stuff, 

Will be powther enough, 
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Bums, Poet Burns, 

Wi' your priest-skelping turns. 

Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 
Your muse is a gipsie : 
E'en though she were tipsie, 

She could ca' us nae waur than we are. 



TO DE. BLJlCKLOCK. Sf!9 

IN ANSWEE TO A LETTER. 

Mlisland, 21st Oct. 1780, 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie 1 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit j auntie, 

Wad bring je to : 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never diink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mysel by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter ; 
I lippen'd to the chield in trouth, 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on. 

E'en tried the body. 

But what d'j'O think, my tinisty fier, 
I'm turn'd a ganger — Peace be here"! 
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me ! 
And then my fifty pounds a-year 

Will httle gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' sti-eamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies. 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a ^nfe and twa wee laddies, 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies'; 

Ye ken yoursels my lieart right proud is — 

I need na vaunt. 
But I'll sued besoms — thraw saugh woodies 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' carei 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers^ 
But why should ae man better fare. 

And a' men brithers ? 



289 BUENS's POETICAL YTOEKS; 



Gome, firm Resolve, take thou the van- 
Thou stalk o' carl hemp in man ! 
Aud let us mind, faint heart ne'er war. 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, ^ 
(I'm scant o' verse and scant o' time,) 
To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckie, 

As e'er trod clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yom-s for aye. 

Robert Bubksl 



Mm. 

Faie the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of cp'ning rose ; 

But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty shows* 

Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 

But, Deha, more dehghtful still, 
Steal thine accents on my ear. 

The flower-enamoured busy bee, 
The rosy banquet loves to sip j 

Sweet the streamlet's hmpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip. 

But, Deha, an thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ; 

Oh, let me steal one hquid kiss. 

For, oh ! my soul is parched with love* 



SKETCH-NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MES. DUNLOP. 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain. 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 



SKETCH — NEW YEAE S DAT. 

1 see the old, bald-pated fellow. 

With ardent eyes, complexion saUow, 

Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 

To wheel the equal, full routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir. 

In vain assail him with their prayer; 

Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 

Nor makes the hour one moment less. 

Will you (the Major's with the hounds, 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

Coila's fare Rachel's care to-day. 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 

From housewife cares a minute borrow — 

— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow, 

And join with me a moralizing: 

This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver ? 

" Another year is gone for ever.'* 

And what is this day's strong suggestion f 

^' The passing moment's all we rest on ! " 

Rest on — for what ? What do we heref 

-Or why regard the passing j^ear ? 

Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 

Add to our date one minute more ? 

A few days may — a few years must — 

Repose us in the silent dust. 

Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 

Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 

The voice of Nature loudly cries, 

And many a message fi'om the skies, 

That something in us never dies : 

That on this fi'ail, uncertain state, 

Hang matters of eternal weight : 

Tliat future Hfe in worlds unknown 

Must take its hue from this alone ; 

Whether as heavenly glory bright. 

Or dark as misery's woeful night. 

Since, then, my honour'd, first of friends, 

On this poor being all depends. 

Let us th' important now employ, 

And live as those who never die : 

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd 

W^itness that filial circle round, 

(A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 

A sight pale envy to convulse,) 

Others now claim your chief regard ; 

Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



z S 



283 BUENS'S POETIC A.L WOEES. 



frnlngir^. 



ErPOZEIT AT THE THEATRE, DTJMFEIES, OS NEW-TEAR S- 
DAY EVEXING.^ 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city, 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity : 
Tlio', by-the-bye, abroad why w^ll yoa roam ? 
Good sense and taste ai*e natives here at home : 

But not for panegyric I appear, 

I come to wish you all a good new year ! 

Old Father Time deputes me here before ye. 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 

The sage, grave ancient cougli'd, and bade me say,. 

" You're one year older this important day." 

If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 

l)ut 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question p 

And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, 

He bade me ou you press this one word — " think ! " 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flushed with hope and spirit, 

Wlio think to stonn the vv^orld by dint of merit, 

To you the dotard has a deal to saj-. 

In his dry, sly, sententious, proverb way ; 

He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle^ 

That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 

That tho' some b}^ the skirt may try to snatch him. 

Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him. 

T'hat, whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 

You maj' do miracles by j^ersevering. 

Last, though not least, in love, ye youthful fair,. 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
'i'o you old Bald-pate smooths his Arankl'd brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important Now 1 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours ; 
And howsoe'er our tongue may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms tiiily feel it. 



^rnlngHB, 

»0E ME. STJTHEELAITD's BENEFIT NI&HT, DTJMFRIJIIS. 

What needs this din about the town of Lon'on, 
How this new i)lay and that new sang is comin' ? 
A'hy is outlandish stuff sae nieikle courted? 
Does nonsense mend, like whisky, when imported ? 



PEGLOGUE. S8S 

f s i;here nae poet, burning keen for fame, 
Will try to gi'e us sangs and plays at hanie? 
For comedy abroad he needua toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Kor need lie hunt as far as Rome and Greoce 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledonian story. 
Would show the Ti-agi<j Muse in all her glory. 

Is there no daring bard will rise and tell 

How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell r 

Where are the muses fled that could produce 

A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 

How here, even here, he first unsheath'd tlie sword. 

'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 

And after many a bloody, deathless doing, 

Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? 

•Oh for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, 

To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! 

Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 

'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Eebellion's arms. 

She fell — but fell with spirit truly Roman, 

To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : 

A woman — tho' the phrase may seem uncivil— 

As able and as cruel as the Devil ! 

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 

But Douglases were heroes every age : 

And tho' your fathers, p^digal of Hfe, 

A Douglas followed to the martial strife. 

Perhaps if bowls row right, and Bight succeeds. 

Ye 3'et may follow where a Douglas leads. 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 

Would take the muses' servants by the ha^.id; 

Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them. 

And where ye justly can commend, commend them 

And aiblins when they wdnna stand the test. 

Wink hard and say the folk ha'e done their best ; 

Vv^ould a' the land do this, then I'll be Ciiutio n 

Ye'll soon ha'e poets o' the Scottish nation. 

Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet craok. 

And warsle Time, and lay him on his back ! 

For us and for our stage should ony spier, 

" What's aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here? 

My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 

We have the honour to belong to you ! 

We're j^our ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, 

But like gude mithers, shore before you strike. 

And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, 

For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 

We've got frae a' professions, sects, and ranks, 

God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get but thanka. 



go^ BTJB'N's'd poetical -SOUK'S. 

mmrii 

70 A GENTLEMAN "WHO HAD SENT THE POET A WE"W»- 

PAPEE, AJ^D OPPEEED TO CONTINUE IT PRES OV 

EXPENSE. 

Kind Sir, I've read pour paper through. 

And faith, to me 'twas really new ! 

How 2:uessed j^e. Sir, what maist I wanted? 

This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, 

To kc-in what French mischief was a-brewin'y 

Or what the drumhe Dutch were doin' ; 

Tliat vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or it' the Swede, before he halt. 

Would pay anither* Charles the Twalt: 

If Denmark, ony body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; 

How cut -throat Prussian blades were hingin ; 

PIo\^' libbet Italy was singin' ; 

If Spaniard, Portugueso, or Swiss, 

Were sayin' or takin aught amiss ; 

Or how our merry lads at hame, 

lu Britain's court, kept up the game; 

Hovv' royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him * 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin', 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin'. 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin' ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, 

Or if bare yet were tax'd; 

Tiie news o' princes, dukes, and earls. 
Pimps, shaiT)ers, bawds, and opera girls ; 
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 
Vv'as threshin' still at hizzies tails ; 
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, 
And na o' perfect kintra cooser. 
A' this and mair I never heard of, 
And but for you I might despair'd of. 
So gratcfu' back your news I send you. 
And pray a' guid things may attend you 1 
JEllislandy Mondai/ Morning, 



fjg Jlirlinlsiin. 



Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

As ever trod on aim ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

And past thn mouth o' Cairn. 



FIEST EPISTLE TO MR. ffJlAHAM, 286 

Peg Nicholson was a good l)ay mare, 

And rode tliro' thick and thin ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

And wanting e'en the skin. 

Peg Nicholson was a good hay mare, 

And ance she bore a priest ; >»► 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

For Solway fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

And the priest he rode her sair ; 
And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was 

As priest-rid cattle are — - 



Sfl mtj %it 



Thou bed, in which I first began 
To be that various creature — Man ! 
And when again the Fates decree, 
The place where I must cease to be ; — 
When sickness comes, to whom I fly. 
To soothe my pain, or close mine eye ; — 
Wlien cares around me, where I weep, 
Or lose them all in balmy sleep ; — 
When sore with labour, whom I court. 
And to thy downy breast resort — 
Where, too ecstatic joys I find, 
When deigns my Deha to be kind — 
And full of love, in all her charms. 
Thou giv'st the fair one to my arms. 
The centre thou — where grief and pain, 
Disease and rest, alternate reign. 
Oh, since within thy little space. 
So many various scenes take place ; 
Lessons as useful shalt thou teach, 
As sages dictate — churchmen preach ; 
And man convinced by thee alone. 
This great important truth shall own : 
" That thin partitions do divide 
The hounds where good and ill reside; 
That nought is 'perfect here helow 
But BLISS still bordering upon woE." 



OF EINTRT. 

Whe:?^ Nature her great master-piece designed, 
And fram'd her last best work, the human mind. 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She formed of various parts the various man. 



2S6 BUENS*S POETICAL -WOEKS. 

Tlien first she calls the useful many forth ; 

Plain plodding industr}^, and sober worth : 

Thence, peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 

And merchandise' whole genus, take their birth : 

Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 

And all mechanics' man}' apron'd kinds. 

Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 

The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; 

The Caput mortuum of gross desires, 

jMakes a material for mere knights and squires ; 

The martial phosphorus is taught to flow. 

She kneads the lumpish, philosophic dough, 

Then marks th' unjdelding mass with grave designs. 

Law, phj'sic, politics, and deep divines : 

Last, she subhmes th' Aurora of the poles, * * 

The flashing element of female souls. 

The order'd sj^stem fair before her stood, 

Nature, well pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good ; 

But 'ere she gave creating labour o'er, 

Half-jest, she cried one curious labour more. 

Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter. 

Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter ; 

With arch alacrity and conscious glee, 

(Nature may have her whim as well as we. 

Her Hogarth-art, perhaps, she meant to show it,) 

She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet, 

Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 

When blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow, 

A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, 

Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage ends : 

A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 

Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 

Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 

Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live ; 

Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 

Yet frequently unheeded in his own. 

Hut Iwnest Nature is not quite a Turk, 

She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work ; 

Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 

She cast about a standard tree to find ; 

And, to support his helx^less, woodbine state, 

Attach'd him to the generous, truly great, 

A title, and the only one I claim, 

To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train. 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish, stern, absorbent shilK 
7'hat never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
"i'lie little fate allows they share as soon, 
Unlike sage provcrb'd wisdom's hard-wrung booa. 



THE FIYE CAELINES. 2!t^7 

The world were blest, did bliss on them depend, 

All, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend ! " 

Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 

Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 

'WTio feel by reason and who give by rule, 

(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 

Who m.ake poor will do wait upon I sJiould — 

Yv' e own they're pinident, but who feels they're good ! 

Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 

God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 

Hut, come, ye who the godhke pleasm'e know 

Heaven's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow ! 

Whose arms of love would grasp the human rajce : 

Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; 

Friend of my life ! true patron of my rhymes I 

Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 

"WTiy shrinks my soul, half blushing, half afraid. 

Backward, abash'd, to ask thy friendly aid ? 

I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 

I crave thy friendshp at thy kind command ; 

But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 

Heavens ! should the branded character be mine ! 

Whose verse in manhood's piide sublimely flows, 

Yet vilest reptiles, in their begging prose. 

Mark, now their lofty, independent spirit 

Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ! 

Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 

Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 

So to Heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, 

But groveUing on the earth the carol ends. 

In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 

Thej^ dun benevolence with shameless front ; 

Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays, 

They persecute you all your future days ! 

'Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain ! 

My horny fist assume the plough again ; 

The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more; 

On eighteen-pence a-week I've liv'd before. 

Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift ! 

I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : 

That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, 

Where, man and nature fairer in her sight. 

My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight 



Theee were five carlines in the south, 

They fell upon a scheme, 
To send a lad to Lon'on town, 

To bring them tidings hame. 



bukns'b poetical works. 

Nor only bring tlicm tidings hame, 

But do their errands there, 
And aibUns gowd, and honour baith 

Might be that laddie's share. 

There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith, 

A dame with pride eneugh, 
And Marjory o' the Monylochs, 

A carhne old and teugh. 

And blinkin' Bess o' Annandale, 

That dwelt near Solvvayside, 
And whisky Jean, that took her gill, 

In Galloway sae wide. 

And black Joan, frae Crichton Peel, 

O' gipsy kith and kin — 
Five whiter carlines warna foun* 

The south countra within. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town, 

They met upon a day, 
And mony a knight, and mony a laird. 

Their errand fain would gae. 

O mony a knight and mony a laird. 
This errand fain would gae ; 

But nae ane could their fancy please, 
O ne'er a ane but twae. 

The first he was a belted knight, 

Bred o' a border clan. 
And he wad gang to Lon'on town, 

Might nae man him withstan*, 

And he wad do their errands weel. 

And meikle he wad saj^, 
And ilka ane at Lon'on court 

Would bid to liim guid day. 

Then next came in a sodger youth. 
And spak wi' modest grace, 

And he wad gae to Lon'on town 
If sae their pleasure was. 

He wadna hecht them courtly gifts, 

Kor meikle speech pretend, 
But he wad hecht an honest heart, 
Wad ne'er desert a friend. 

Now, wham to choose, and wham refase^ 
At strife their carlines fell ! 

For some had gentlefolks to please, 
And some would i)loase themsel. 



THE FIVE CAELINBS. 2^89 

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, 

And she spak up wi' pride, 
And she wad send the sodger youth, 

Whatever might betide. 

For the auld guidraan o' Lon'on court 

She didna care a pin ; 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son, 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annandaler, 

And a deadly aith she's ta'en, 
That she wad vote the border knight. 

Though she should vote her lane. 

For far-off fowls ha'e feathers fair. 

And fools o' change are fain ; 
But I ha'e tried the border knight, 

And I'll try him yet again. 

Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel, 

A carhne stoor and grim, 
The auld guidman, and the young guidmmar*, 

For me may sink or swim. 

For fools will freat o' right or wrang. 

While knaves laugh them to scorn ! 
But the sodgers friends ha'e blawn the best. 

So he shall bear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak owre hex drink, 

Ye weel ken, kimmers a', 
The auld guidman o' Lon'on court. 

His back's been at the wa' ; 

And mony a friend that kiss'd his cup. 

Is now a fremit wight : 
But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean — 

I'll send the border knight. 

Then slow raise Marjory o' the Loch, 

And wrinkled was her brow. 
Her ancient weed was russet grey. 

Her auld Scot's bluid was true. 

There's some gi'eat folks set light by me, 

I set as Hght by them j 
But I will send to Lon'on town 

Wham I like best at hame. 

Sae how this weighty plea may end, 

Nae mortal wight can tell : 
€k)d grant the king and ilka man 

May look weel to himsel. 

19 2i 



£90 BUE^'S'S POETICAL wosss. 

§>mn^ iBfistli tn 3Sr. &u^mn. 

OF FINTET, 

FiNTEY, my stay in worldly strife. 
Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life. 

Are ye as idle's I am ? 
Come then, \n' uncouth, kintra fle^, 
O'er Pegasus I'll iiing my leg, 

And ye shall see me try him. 

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears. 
Who left the all-important cares 

Of princes and their darlings ; 
And bent on winning borough towns, 
Came shaking hands wi' wabster louns, 
And kissing barefit carhns. 

Combustion through our boroughs rode 
WTiistling his roaring pack abroad, 

Of mad, unmuzzled hons ; 
As Queensberry buff and blue unfmi'd, 
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd 

To every Whig defiance. 

But Queensberry, cautious, left the war. 
The unmanner'd dust might soil his stai^ 

Besides, he hated bleeding ; 
But left behind his heroes bright, 
Heroes in Caesarean tight 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

Oh for a throat like huge Mons-meg, 
To muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banners ; 
Heroes and heroines commix 
All in the field of politics, 

To win immortal honours. 

IM'Murdo and his lovely spouse, 

(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows,) 

Led on the loves and gracce ; 
She won each gaping burgess' heart 
While he, aU-conquering, play'd his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 

Craidan'och led a light-arm'd corps ; 
Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour, 

Like Hecla, streaming thunder; 
Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins, 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs, 

And bar'd the treason mider. 

In either wing two champions fought, 
Redoubted Staig, who set at nought 



SECOND EPISTLE TO ME. GRAHAM. Ji91 

The wildest savage Tory. 
And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground, 
High wav'd his magnum bonum round 

With Cyclopean fury. 

Miller brought up the artillery ranks, 
The many pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation ; 
While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 
Mid Lawson's port entrench'd his hold. 

And threaten'd worse damnation. 

To these, what Tory hosts oppos'd ; 
With these, what Tory warriors closed, 

Surpasses my descriving : 
Squadrons extended long and large, 
With furious speed i-ush'd to the charge. 

Like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ? 
Grim horror grinn'd, pale terror roar'd, 
As murther at his thrapple shor'd ; 
And hell mixt in the brulzie ! 

As Highland crags, by thunder cleft 
When lightnings fire the stormy Uft, 

Hurl down wi' crashing rattle ; 
As flames amang a hundred woods ; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods ; 

Such is the rage of battle. 

The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly, 

Before th' approaching fellers ; 
The Whigs come on like ocean's roar. 
When all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan BuUers. 

Lo ! from the shades of death's deep night, 
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, 

And think on former daring'; 
The muffled murtherer of Charles 
The Magna Charta flag unfurls. 

All deadly gules its bearing. 

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame, 

Bold Scrimgeour foUows gallant Grahame, 

And Covenanters shiver — 
[Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Monti'ose, 
While death and hell engulf thy foes, 

Thou liv'st on high for ever ! ) 

Still o'er the field the combat burns ; 
The Tories, Whigs give way by turns ; 



292 BUBNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

But fate the word has spoken — 
For woman's wit, or strength of man, 
Alas ! can do but what tliej' can — 

The Tor}^ ranks are broken ! 

Oh that my ecn were flowing burns, 
My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darHng cub's undoing ; 
That I migfht greet, that I might crj-, 
While Tories fall, while Tories fly, 

And furious Whigs pursuing. 

What Whig but wails the good Sir Jamos 
Dear to his country bj'' the names 

Friend, Patron, Benefactor ? 
Not Pultney's wealth can Pultney save : 
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! 

And Stuart bold as Hector ! 

Thou, Pitt, shall rue this overthrow, 
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe, 

And MelviUe melt in wailing ; 
Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice, 
And Bm'ke shall sing, " prince, arise ', 

Thy power is all prevailing." 

For your poor friend, the Bard afar, 
He hears, and only hears the war, 

A good spectator purely ; 
So when the storm the forest rends, 
The robin in the hedge descends 

And sober chirps securely. 



THROUaH SCOTLATfD, COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES 09 
THAT KINGDOM. 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats, 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede ye tent it ; 
A chield's amang you taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent it 

If in your bounds yi chance to light 

Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 

O' stature short, but genius bright. 

That's he — mark weel, 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 



CAPTAIN geose's peeegeinations. 293 

By some auld houlet-liaunted biggin, 

Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 

It's ten to ane ye'U tind bim snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, Lord save's, colleaguim' 

At some black art. 

Hk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer, 

Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamom*. 

And you, deep-read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight bitches. 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spuitle blade. 

And dog-skin wallet. 
And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets, 
Rusty aird caps and jinglin' jackets. 
Wad haud tjie Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid : 
And parraitch-pats, and auld saut-backeti 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder, 
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender, 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass ; 
A broomstick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, 
The cut of Adam's philabeg ; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig, 

He'll prove j^ou fuUy, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gully. 

But wad ye see him in his glee. 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him. 
And port. Oh port ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him. 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose, 
Thou art a dainty chiel, Oh Grose ! 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, shame fa' thee. 
2aS 



294 BUKNS S POETICAL W0EK8. 

ENCLOSING A LETTEE TO CAPTAIN GEOSB. 

Ken ye aught o' Captain Grose ? 

Igo and ago, 
If he's amang his friends or foes ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 
Is he south or is he north ? 

Igo and ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 
Is he slain by Highlan' bodies ? 

Igo and ago, 
And eaten hke a wether haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 
Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo and ago. 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame ? 

Iram, coram, dago, 
Where'er he be, the Lord be near him, 

Igo and ago. 
As for the deil, he dauma steer him, 

Iram, coram, dago. 
But please transmit the enclosed letter, 

Igo and ago, 
Which wiU obHge your humble debtor, 

Iram, coram, dago. 
So may ye ha'e auld stanes in store, 

Igo and ago. 
The very stanes that Adam bore, 

Iram, coram, dago. 
So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo and ago. 
The coins o' Satan' coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 



Mims nf 5SrpI|rIiiit 



TO THE PEESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY. 

Long life, my Lord, and health be yours, 
Uiiscaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors; 
Lord grant nae duddie, desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rustj^ trigger, 
^lay twin auld Scotland o' a life 
Sho likes — as lambkins like a knife. 

Faith, you and A s were right 

To keop the Highland hounds in sight : 
I doubt na ! they wad bid nae better 
Than let them ance out owre the water ; 



ADDBESS TO BEELZEBUB. 295 

Then up amang thrae lakes and seas 
They'll mak what rules and laws they please ; 
Some daring Hancock or a Franklin, 
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin* ; 
Some Washington again may head them, 
Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them, 
Till God knows what may be effected 
AVhen by such heads and hearts directed — ■ 
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 
May to Patrician rights aspire ! 
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville, 
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, 
And whare will ye get Howes and CKntons 
To bring them to a right repentance, 
To cowe the rebel generation. 
And save the honour o' the nation ? 

They and be d d ! what right ha'e they 

To meat, or sleep, or light o' day ? 

Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom. 

But what your lordship likes to gi'e them ? 

But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! 

Your hand's owre light on them, I fear ; 

Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, 

I canna say but they do gay lies ; 

They lay aside a' tender mercies. 

And tirl the hallions to the birses ; 

Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, 

They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit 

But smash them ! crash them a' to spails ! 

And rot the dy vors i' the jails ! 

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour 

Let wark and hunger mak them sober ! 

The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont, 

Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd ! 

A nd if the wives and dirty brats 

E'en thigger at your doors and yetts 

Flaflan wi' duds and grey wi' beas', 

Frightin' awa your deucks and geese, 

Get out a horsewhip or a jowler. 

The langest thong, the fiercest growler, 

And gar the tattered gipsies' pack, 

Wi' a' their bastards on their back ! 

Go on, my Lord ! I lang to meet you. 

And in my house at liame to greet you ; 

Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle. 

The benmost neuk beside the ingle. 

At my right han' assigned your seat 

'Twecn Herod's hip and Polycrate — 

Or if you on your station tarrow, 

Between Almagro and Pizarro, 



296 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

A seat, I'm sure j^e're weel deservin't ; 
And till ye come — Your humble servant, 

Beelzebub. 
June \st, Anno Mundij 5790. 



ON THE APPEOACH OP SPRING. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheet o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lee : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wiglit 

That fast in durance Hes. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry mora, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r 

Makes woodland echoes ring : 
The mavis wild wi' mony a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and fi'eedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae ; 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
P.ut I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun He in prison Strang ! 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France 

Where happy I ha'e been ; 
Fu' hghtly rase I in the morn. 

As blythe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands. 

And never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman ! 

My sister and my fao. 
Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae ! 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor til' balm that draps on wounds of W0< 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 



THE WHISTLE. 297 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars, 

Upon thy fortune shine ! 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend 

Remember him for me ! 

Oh soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave : 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 



s|5 w\^m. 



I SING- of a whistle, a whistle of worth, 

I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North, 

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, 

And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring. 

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall — 
" Tliis whistle's your challenge — to Scotland get o'er 
And drink them to lieU, Sir ! or ne'er see me more ! 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the whistle his requiem Bhrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war. 
He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea. 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd, 
Which now in his house has for ages remained; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear as flaw ; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law ; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 



2C3 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WOKKS. 

" By the gods of the ancients ! " Glenriddel replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
rU conjure the ghost of the great Hone More, ^ ^^ 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o er. 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, 
liut he ne'er turned his back on his foe— or his triend, 
Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the held, 
And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he d yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair. 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and cai^e ; 

But for wine and for welcome not more known to tame 

Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet, lovely dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the frajr. 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner beuag o'er, the claret they ply, 

And every new cork is a new spring ot joy ; 

In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, 

And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wc^t. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Ikight Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core. 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn. 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, 
WhCni gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 

No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage; 
A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
lie left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fcught hard to the end, 
F.ut who can with fate and quart bumpers contend ? 
Though fate said— a hero shall perish in H.ij^ht, 
So up rose bright Phoebus— and down fell the knight, 

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink — _ 
" Craigdarroch thou'lt soar when creation shall sink ; 
P>ut if"thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 
(jome — one bottle more— and have at the sublime ! 

Thy line, that have struggl'd for freedom and Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce ; 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the lay, ^^ 

The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day ! 



OH MISS BTJENET, OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triuraph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid the accompHshed Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ? 

In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 

As by His noblest work the Godhead best is known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flow'ry shore, 
Ye woodland choir, that chant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm — ^EHza is no more ! 

Ye heathy wastes, inmix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd ; 
Ye rugged cHffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth, 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 

And thou, sweet excellence 1 forsake our earth, 
And not a muse in honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's hght, that beams beyond the spheres ; 

But, Hke the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left'st us darkhng in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee. 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care ; 

So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree ; 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



fHmjnt 

FOE JAMES, EAEL OF GLENCAIEN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sxm's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream 
Beneath a craggy steep, a bard. 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord. 

Whom death had all imtimely ta'en. 



800 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years { 
His locks were bleached white with time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their c^ves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

" Ye scatter'd birds that faintlj' sing 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the wdnds 

The honours of the aged year : 
A few short months, and glad and gay. 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nought in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast. 

And my last hold of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm. 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

I've seen sae mony changefu' years. 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men. 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust. 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

And last (the sum of a* my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride ! his country's stay- 
in weary being now I pine. 

For a' the life o' life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair; 
Awake ! resound thy latest lay — 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend. 

That tillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought'st from fortune's mirkcstgloom. 



EPISTLE TO MR. GEAHAM. fiOl 

In poverty's low barren vale 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; 
Though oft I turned the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me like the morning sun, 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song 

Became alike thy fostering c^e. 

Oh ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen grey with time; 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great. 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy primo ! 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of woe ! — 
Oh ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

The bridegroom may forget the bride, 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen : 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee • 
But I'U remember thee, Glencaim, 

And a' that thou hast done for me ! 



8BST TO SIE JOHN WHITEFOED, BAET., OF WHIIE" 
FOED, WITH THE POEEGOINa POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, 

Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly feai'st, 

To thee this votive offering I impart, 

The fearful tribute of a broken heart. 

The friend thou valued'st, I, the patron, loved ; 

His worth, his honour, all the world approved ; 

We'll mourn till we, too, go as he has gone, 

And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown. 



OP PINTEY. 

Late cripprd of an arm, and now a leg, 

About to beg- a pass for leave to beg : 

Dull, listless, teased, dejected, and deprest, 

(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) ; 

Will generous Graham list to his Poet*s wail ? 

(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale) 

2b 



802 BITENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

And hear him curse the light he first survey'd. 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade. 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature I I arraign ; 

Of thy, caprice maternal I complain. 

The Hon and the bull thy care have found, 

One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground j 

Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 

Th' envenom'd wasj), victorious, guards his cell ; 

Thy minion, kings, defend, control, devour, 

In all th' omnipotence of rule and power ; 

Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ; 

The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 

Toads with their poison, doctors with their dm;, 

The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug ; 

Ev'n silly woman has her warhke arts. 

Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts ; 

But, oh ! thou bitter stepmother and hard. 

To thy poor fenceless, naked child — the Bard ! 

A thing unteachable in world's skill. 

And half an idiot, too, more helpless still ; 

No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun ; 

No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 

No horns but those by luckless Hymen worn, 

And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : 

No nerves olfact'ry. Mammon's trusty cur. 

Clad in rich dullness' comfortable fur; — 

In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 

He bears the unbroken blast from everj^ side : 

Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heaii;, 

And scorpion critics cm-eless venom dart. 

Critics ! — appall'd I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ! 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, 

By blockhead's daring into madness stung ; 

His well-won bays than life itself more dear. 

By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear; 

Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife. 

The hapless poet flounders on through life ; 

Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, 

And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, 

Low sunk hi squahd, unprotected age. 

Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 

He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's riige I 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd. 
For half-starv'd, snarhng curs a dainty feast 
By toil and famine worn to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 



EPISTLE TO MS. GEAHAM. ^gQg 

Oh dullness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
€alm, shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost or torrid beams. 
If manthng high she fills the golden cup,- 
With sober, selfish ease they sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder " some folks " do net starve. ' 
The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad, worthless dog. 

When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
^ And thro' disastrous night they darkling gropo, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And just conclude that '^ fools are fortune's care.** 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
"Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ex. 
Not so the idle muse's mad-cap train. 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brafei 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring Heaven, or vaulted hell. 

"l dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, 
V/ith all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ! 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
"Olencaim, the truly noble, Hes in dust ; 
{Fled, like the sun eclips'd as neon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of t^ars ;) 
•Oh, hear my ardent, grateful, selfish, pray -r !— 
Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Through a long life his hopes and wishes crev/n-? 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ; 
May bHss domestic smooth his private path, 
Give energy to life, and soothe his latest breatlx 
With many a filial tear circhng the bed of deatk-l 



OF FINTEX, ON EECEIVING A FAYOUE, 

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my fife ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart retui*ns. 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer, as the ^iver, you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light! 
And all ye many sparkhng stars of night; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface. 
If 1 that giver's bounty e'er disgrace; 
Then roll to me, alang ypur wandering sph(S.'6*v 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



304 BTJRITS'S POETICAL W0EK3. 

^^ Higljts nf 'B^ninniL 

AS OCCASIONAL ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY MTISS PONTENKLLSQ 
ON HEE BENEFIT NIGHT, (nOV. 26, 1792). 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty tilings. 
The fate of empires, and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his plan,. 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man; 
Amidst this mighty fuss just let me mention. 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the sexes' interaiixed connection. 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
The tender flower that hfts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, 
Srmk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. 

Our second right — but needless here is caution,. 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion ; 
Each man of sense has it so full before him^ 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time when, rough, rude man had naughty ways;; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, 
Nay even thus invade a lady's quiet. 
Now, thank our stars, these Gothic times are fled ; 
Now, weU-bred men — and you are all well bred — 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers),. 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest,. 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest. 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration^ 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone v/e live and move > 
There taste that life of life — immortal love ! 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares ?-— 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms. 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutioui| 
With bloody armaments and revolutions. 
Let majesty your first attention summon, 
Ah I ca ira I the majesty op -woman I 



TASTOEAL POETET. ^906 


U Ml M^xmll, 


OE TEEEAITGHTY, ON HIS BIET3-DAY. 


Health to thee, Maxwell's vet'ran chief ! 
Health aye unsour'd by care or grief, 
Inspir'd, I turn Fate's sybil leaf 

This natal morn; 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief, ^ ^ 

Scarce quite hall worn, "-^^ 


This dajrthou metes'st three score eleven, 

And I can tell that bounteous Heaven, 

c(The second sight, ye ken, is given ^^ 

Toilkaijoet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 


If envious buckies view wi' sorrow 

Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, 

May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow. 

Nine miles an hour, ;f - ♦ 
Hake them like Sodom and Gomoirah, 

Inbrimstane shoure — 


But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
■Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, 
May CGuthie fortune, kind and cannie. 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny, 

Eless them and thee I 


Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye. 

And the dcil he daurna steer ye; 

Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye, 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If near'st my heart I dinna wear ye 

While BuENS they ca' me. 


M fiistal In^tq* 


H AJ-L, Poesie ! thou nj-mph reserv'd. 
In chase o' thee what ci-owds hae swerv'd 


I Frae common sense, or sunk unnerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; v- 
And, och, owre aft thy joes ha'e starv'd 
'Mid a' thy favours ! 


Say, lassie, why thy train amang, 
WTiile loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 
' To death or marriage; 

Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang, 
But wi' miscarriage ? 

20 2b3 



S06 BUENS'S POETICAl WORZB* 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thriveaj 
Escbvlus' pen Will Shakspearc di'ives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'til him rives* 

Horatian fame ; 
lu thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survivea^ 

Ev'n Sappho's fame. 

But thee, Tlieocritus, wlia matches ? 

Thej^'re no herd's ballats, Maro's catches 5 

Squira Pope but busks his skinklin patches , 

O' heathen tatters ; 
I pass by hundred nameless wretches^ 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age of wit and lear. 
Will najie the Shepherd's wliistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share 

A rival place ? 

Yes, there's ane, a Scottish callan — 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan t 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever ; 
The teeth of time may gnaw Tantallanj. 

But thou's for ever. 

Tho'A paints auld Nature to the nines. 

In thy sweet, Caledonian lines ; 

!yie gowden stream thro' m^-rtles twines^ 

Where Philomel, 
12^1iile nightly breezes sweep the vines,. 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In goweny glens thy bumie sti'ays, 

Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes : 

Or trots bj^ hazelly shaws and braes, [ 

Wi' liawthorns grej^, [ 

"\vliere blackbirds join the shepherd's laya j 

At close o' day. 1 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel' ; I 

Nae bombast spates 0' nonsense swell ; j 

Is^ae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchm' love ; 
That charm, that can the strongest qnelli 

The sternest move. 



TEE TEEE OF LIBEETT, 80^ 

^arSlTTEN OK THE 2oTH JANUAKT, 1793, THE BTRTK-DAY 
0!P THE AUTHOE, ON HEARING A THEUSH SI>'© IN A 
MO:aNING WALK. 

Sing- on, sweet thrusli, upon the leafless bougli, 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,"^ 
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blj^the carol clears his fiirrow'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, 

Sits meek Content, with light, imanxious l^art, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

JNor asks if they bring anght to hope or fear. 

i thank thee, Author of this opening day! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient sides 1 

Kiches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
WTiat wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ! 
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with thee 
1 il share. 



THE TREE OP LIBERTY. 

Heaeb ye 0* the tree o' France, 

I watna what's the name o't ; 
Around it a' the patriots dance, 

Weel Europe kens the fome o't ; 
It stands where ance the Bastile stood, 

A prison built by kings, man, 
Wh^en Superstition's helhsh brood 

Kept France in leading strings, man. 

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit, 

Its virtues a' can tell, man ; 
It raises man aboon the brute. 

It makes him ken himself, man. 
If ance the peasant taste a bit 

He's greater than a lord, man. 
And wi' the beggar shares a mite 

O' a' he can afford, man. 

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth, 

To comfort us 'twas sent, man ; 
To gi'e the sweetest blush o' health, 

And mak us a' content, man. 
It clears the een, it cheers the heart, 

Maks high and low guid friends, man. 
And he wha acts the traitor's part, 

It to perdition sends, man. 



SOS BUSNS'S POETICAL WOEKSJ. 

My "blessings a5'e attend the cliiel, 
• AMia pitied Gallia's slaves, man, 

And staw'd a branch, spite o' the dei^ 

Frae yon't the western waves, man. 
Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care, 

And now she sees wi' pride, man, 
iro\v weel it buda and blossoms there>. 

Its branches spreading wide, man, 

But vicious folk aye hate to see 

The works o' Virtue thrive, man ; ' 
The courtlj^ vermin's banned the tree,. 

And grat to see it thrive, man, 
King Loui' thought to cut it down. 

When it was unco sma', man"; 
For this the watchman cracked his crows 

Cut aff his head and a', man, 

A wicked crew syne,^ on a time, 

Did tak a solemn aith, man, 
It ne'er should flourish to its prime, 

I wat they pledged their faith, man^ 
Awa, they gaed wi'^ mock parade. 

Like beagles hunting game, man, 
But soon grew weary o' the trade, 

And wished they'd been at hame, maii. 

For Freedom, standing by the tree, 

He sons did loudly ca', man ; 
^iie sang a song o' libei-tj^, 

\Vliich pleased them ane and a', mai^, 
V.y her inspired, the new-born race 

Soon drew the avenging steel, man ; 
Tlie hirelings ran — her foes gied chase. 

And bang'd the despot weel, man. 

J.et Britain boast her hardy oak. 

Her poplar and her pine, man, 
Auld Biitain ance cmild crack her joke. 

And o'er her neighbours shine, man. 
But seek the forest raund and round, 

And soon 'twill be agreed, man, 
Tl'at sic a tree can not be found, 

'Twixt London and the Tweed, maa. 

Vv'ithout this tree, alack this life 

Is but a vale o' woe, man ; 
A scene o' sorrow mixed wi' strife, 

Xae real joys we know, man. 
"We lal)Our soon, we labour late, 

To feed the titled knave, man , 
And a' the comfort we're to get. 

Is that avout the grave, man. 



LINES. 809 

Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow, 
^ The vvarld would live in peaco, man ; 
The sword would help to mak a ploug'h. 

The din o' war wad cease, man. 
Like brethren in a common cause, 

We'd on each other smile, man ; 
And equal rights and equal laws 

Wad gladden every isle, man. 

Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat 

^ 8ic whalesome, dainty cheer, man ; 
I'd gae my shoon frae afFmy feet, 

To taste sic fruit, I swear, man. 
Syne let us pra}^, auld England may 

Sure plant this far-famed tree, man ; 
And blythe we'll sing, and hail the day 

That gave us liberty, man. 



In §mml Bnmmim. 

A PAEODT OX EOBIIf ADAIIL 

Yor'sE welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 

How does Dampiere do ? 

Aj^, and Dournonville too ? 
Vvliy did they not come along with you, Dumouner ? 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; 
I will fight France with j^ou, Dumourier ; 

I will fiight France with jou. ; 

I will take my chance with you ; 
J3y my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 
Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about. 

Till fi'eedom's spark is out, 
Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt — Dumourier. 



i:iiii!s 

BKKT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED, 

Ttte friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray) — • 
Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 



810 BUENS S POETICAL WOEKS. 

Mine was tli' insensate frenzied part, 

Ah, why shonld 1 such scenes outlive !— 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart I 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



ON A LADY FAMED FOE HEE CAPEICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, 

How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately ghsten'd ; 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd ! 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 

From friendship and dearest affection remov'd ; 

How doubly severer. Eliza thy fate, 
Thou diedst unwept, as thou lived'st unlov'd. 

Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ! 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : 
But come, aU ye offspring of folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for EHza's cold bier. 

We'll search through the garden for each silly flower, 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed ; 

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower. 

For none e'er approached her but rued the rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the la}' ; 

Here vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey. 

Which spurning contempt shall redeem from his ire. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies now a prey to insulting neglect. 

What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect. 
Want only of goodness — denied her esteem. 



%i5tlB frnnr feDjiiis In Mam. 

From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, 
Where infamy with sad repentance dwells ; 
Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, 
And deal from iron hands the spare repast, 
AN' here truant 'prentices, } et young in sin, 
Bhish at the curious stranger peeping in; 
Where strumpetS, relics of the drunken roar, 
licisolve to drink, nay, half to whore no more : 
Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, 
Beat hemp for others, riper for the string ; 



EPISTLE FEOM ESOPUS TO MAEIA. 311 

From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date. 
To tell i^Iaria her Esopus' fate. 

*' Alas ! I feel I am no actor here ! " 

'Tis real hangman, real scourges bear 

Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale 

Will tm-n thy very rouge to deadly pale ; 

Will make thy hair tho' erst from gipsey polled, 

By barber woven, and by barber sold, 

Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care. 

Like hoar}' bristles to erect and stare. 

The hero of the mimic scene, no more, 

I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar : 

Or ha\ighty chieftain, 'mid the din of arms, 

In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms ; 

While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high. 

And steal from me Maria's eye. 

Blest Highland bonnet ! once my proudest dress, 

Now prouder still, Maria's temples press, 

I see her wave th}^ towering plumes afar. 

And call each coxcomb to the wordy war ; 

I see her face the first of Ireland's sons, 

And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; 

The crafty Colonel leaves the tartaned Hues 

For other wars where he a hero shines ; 

The hopeful youth in Scottish senate bred. 

Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head. 

Comes 'mid a string of coxcombs to display. 

That veni, vidi, vici, is his way ; 

The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks, 

And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulk? 

Though there, his heresies in church and state 

]\Iight well award him Muir and Palmer's fate : 

Still she undaunted reels and rattles on, 

And dares the public Hke a noontide sun. 

(What scandal call'd Maria's jaunty stagger; 

The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger ! 

Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns's venom, whea 

He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, 

And pours his vengeance in the burning line. 

Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine. 

The idiot stiTim of vanity bemused, 

And even th' abuse of poesj^ abused : 

Who call'd her verse a parish workhouse, made 

For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or stray'd r) 

A workhouse ! ah ! that sound awakes my woes. 

And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose ! 

In durance vile here must I wake and weep ! 

And all my fi'owsy couch in sorrow steep ! 

That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore. 

And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore. 

Wliy, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour ; 

Must earth no rascal save thyself endure ? 



312 BUEIfS's POETICAL WOKKS. 

Must thou alone, in guilt immortal swell, 

And make a vast monopol}^ of hell ? 

Thou knows't the virtues cannot hate thee worse ; 

The vices, also, must tliey cluh their curse ? 

Or must no tiny sin to others fall, 

Because thy gmlt's supreme, enough for all ? 

IMaria, send me, too, thy griefs and cares ; 
In all of thee, sure thy Esopus shares. 

As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, 

Who on my fair one satire's vengeance hurls ? 

Who calls thee pert, affected, vain coquette, 

A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ? 

W^ho says that fool abne is not thy due, 

And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true ? 

Our force united on thy foes we'll turn, 

And dare the war with all of woman born : 

For who can write and speak as thou and I ? 

My periods that decyphering defy, 

And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply. 



SONNET, 

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN EIDDEL, OP GLENKIDDEL, 
APEIL, 1794. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, — no more ! 

Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul ; 

Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. 

How can ye cliarm, ye flow'rs, wath all your dyes ? 

Ye blow upon the sod that \vi'aps my friend ! 

How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel 
lies! 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on the bier : 
The man of worth, who hath not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house " for ever darkly low. 

The Spring again with joy shall others greet, 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



IMPROMPTU, 

ON MES. EIDDEL's BIETH-DAT. 

Old Winter, with his frosty beai'd, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr*d^ 
" What have I done of all the year, 
To bcai* this hated doom severe ? 



818 



My clieerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Night's hoiTid car drags dreary, slow ; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny Enghsh, hanging, drowning. 
Now Jove, for once, be mighty civil, 
To counterbalance all this evil ; 
Give me, and Tve no more to say, 
Give me Maria's natal day 1 
That brilliant gift shall so enrich me. 
Spring, Slimmer, autumn, cannot match me/' 
" 'Tis done ! " says Jove ; so ends my story^ 
And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



As I stood by yon roofless tower. 

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy ai?. 
Where th' owlet mourns in her ivy bower, 

And tells th e midnight moon her care— 

The winds were laid, the air was still. 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; 

The fox was howhng on the hill. 
To the distant-echoing glen's reply. 

The stream, adown its hazelly path. 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's. 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
Whose distant roaring swells and fa's* 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din ; 

Athwart the Hft they start and shift. 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes. 
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane. 
His daring look had daunted me ; 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 
The sacrred motto — " Libertie ! " 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow. 
Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear i 

But oh ! it was a tale of woe. 
As ever met a Briton's ear. 

He sang wi' joy the former day, 

He weeping wail'd his latter times 5 

But what he said it was nae play^- 
I winna ventur't in my rhymes. 

2G 



324 BUKMS'S POEIICAL W0EK8. 

3tilii;rtii-£ J^ragtnnrt. 

Thee, Caledonia, tliy wild heaths among. 
Thee, fam'd for martial deeds and sacred song. 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
\Vliere is that soul of freedom tied ? 
Iramingl'd with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies. 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death I 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep. 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath. 

Is this the power in freedom's war, 

That wont to bid the battle ra,ge ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate. 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing — 
Miold e'en grizzly death's majestic state 

When Freedom's sacred glance c'ea death is wcavii»g 



OF FI]^7TET. 

Heee, where the Scottish muse immortal live?s 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift ; — tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast. 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 

Biit peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake th}^ seraph song. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears. 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears. 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



THE VOWELS. 

A TA.LE. 

*TwA.s where the birch and sounding thong are plied, 

The noisy domicile of pedant pride. 

Where ignorance her dark'ning va})Our throws, 

And cruelty directs the thick'ning blows ; 

Upon a time, Sir A-be-ce the great, 

In all the pedagogic powers elate, 

His awful chair of state resolves to mouht. 

And call the trembling vowels to accouxt. 



YEKSES TO JOHN EA^-B:INE. 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wiglitj 
But, ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight I 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way. 
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai! 

Rehictant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race 
The josthng tears ran down his honest face! 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own> 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ; 
The Pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Kot all his mongrel dip thongs can compound; 
And next the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

The cobweb'd Gothic dome resounded, Y ? 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd 0, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert, 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art j 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 

His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 
As trembling U stood staring all aghast. 
The pedant on his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him etc, and kick'd him from his sight. 



316 



VERSES TO JOHN RANKINE. 

Ane da}^, as Death, that grusome carle, 
Was driving to the tither warl' 
A mixtie-maxtie, motley squad, 
And mony a guilt -bespotted lad — 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and garter, 
To him that wintles in a halter : 
Asham'd himsel' to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, 
" By G — , I'll not be seen behint them, 
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them, 
Without, at least, ane honest man, 
To grace this d — 'd infernal clan." 
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" L — d God ! " quoth he, " I have it now, 
There's just the man I want, i'faith ! " 
And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath. 



316 BUENS'S rOETlCAL 'S\'OIiE:S. 

ON SENSIBILITY. 

TO MY DEAB AND MUCH-HONOUEED FRIEND, MRS. DUFMF, 
OF DUNLOP. 

Sensibility how charming, 

Thou, my iiiend, can truly tell; 
But distress with horrors arming, 

Thou hast also known too well I 

fc Fairest flower, hehold the lily, 

Blooming in the sunny ray : 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay. 
Hear the woodlark charm the forest, 

Telhng o'er his Uttle joys ; 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, 

To each pirate of the skies. 
Dearly bought, the hidden treasure, 

Finer feelings can bestow ; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



BPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT 
NIGHT. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour. 
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better ; 
So sought a poet, roosted near the skies. 
Told him I came to feast ray curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing hke his works was ever printed; 
And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. 
" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, 
" I know your bent— these are no laughing times : 
Can you— but Miss, I own I have my fears- 
Dissolve in sighs— and sentimental tears, 
With laden breath and solemn rounded sentence, 
Kouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance ; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 
AVaving on high the desolating brand, ^^ 

Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land r* 
I could no more— askance the creature eyeing. 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made f(yr crymg ? 
I'll laugh, that's poz— nay more, the world shall know it; 
And so, your servant, gloomy Master Poet ! 
Firm as my creed. Sirs, 'tis my tixed belief. 
That misery's another word for grief; 
I also think— so may I 1)0 a bride !— ^ 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy d. 



TO cnLoms. 817 

Thon man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man aUve— 
To make three guineas do the work of five ; 
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam \vitch !— 
Say you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love. 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy neck— 
Or, where the beetling chff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the heaHng leap : 
Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf ! 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself : 
Learn to despise those frowns, now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 

And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The morahsing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To ioin the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life's o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lower ; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store— 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below, 

Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joy's refined of sense and taste, 

With every muse to rove : 
And doubly were the poet blest, 

These joys could he improve. 

208 



818 EFEXS'S POETICAL WOEES. 

Slhtoss In tjiB ^^nk Bf ^mmn, 

ON CEOWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, EOXBUEGH- 
SHIEE, WITH BATS. 

While virgin spring, by Eden's flood, 

Unfolds her tender mantle green, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 

Or tunes Eolian strains between : 

While Summer, with a matron grace. 
Retreats to Di-yburgh's cooling shade. 

Yet oft dehghted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

Wliile Autumn, benefactor kind, 

By Tweed erects his aged head. 
And sees with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed : 

"VMiile maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar. 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 

So long, sweet Poet of the year ! 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast v»"on ; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear. 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



BALLADS ON MR. HERON'S ELECTIONS. 
[ballad fiest.] 

Wno^sr you will send to London town, 

To Parliament and a' that ? 
Or wha in a' the country round 
The best deserves to fa' that ? 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Thro' Galloway and a' that ; 
Where is the laird or belted knight 
That best deserves to fa' that ? 

Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett. 

And wha is't never saw that ? 
Wha ever wi' KciToughtree met 
And has a doubt of a' that ? 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet, for a' that ! 
The independent patriot. 
The honest man and a' that. 



TnE ELECTION. 819 



Tho' wit and worth in either sex, 
St. Mary's Isle can shaw that ; 
VVi' dukes and Lords let Selkirk mix, 
And weel does Selkirk fa' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet, for a' that ! 
The independent commoner 
Shall he the man for a' that. 

But why should we to nobles jouk ? 

And is't against the law that ? 
For why, a lord may be a gouk, 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
A lord may be a lousy looii, 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 

A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, 

Wi' uncle's pm'se and a' that ; 
But vs^e'll hae ane fi*ae 'mang oursels, 
A man we ken, and a' that, 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
For we're not to be bought and sold 
Like naigs and nowt, and a' that 

Then let us drink the Stewartry, 

Kerroughtree's laird, and a' that, 
Our representative to be. 

For weel he's worthy a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet, for a' that ! 
A House of Commons such as he, 
They v/ould be blest that saw that. 



[ballad second.] 

Ft, let us a' to Kircudbright, 

For there will be bickerin' there ; 
For Murray's light-horse are to muster, 

And oh, how the heroes will swear ! 
And there will be Murray commander, 

And Gordon the battle to win ; 
Like brothers they'll stand by each other, 

Sae knit in alliance an' sin. 

And there will be black-hppit Johnnie, 
The tongue o' the trump to them a' j 

An' he get na hell for his haddin*, 
The deil gets na justice ava' j 



320 BUli^'S's POETICAL TTOUKS. 

And there will bo Kempleton's birkie, 
A bo J' no sae black^t the bane, 

But, as for his line nabob fortune, 
We'll e'en let the subject alane. 

And there will be Wigton's new sheriff ; 

Dame Justice fu' brawUe has sped, 
She's gotten the heart of a Busby, 

But, Lord, what's become of the head ? 
And there will be Cardoness, Esquire, " 

Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 
A wight that will weather damnation, 

For the devil the prey will despise. 

And there will be Douglases doughty. 

New christ'ning towns far and near ; 
Abjuring their democrat doings, 

By kissing the — o' a peer ; 
And there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous. 

Whose honour is proof to the storm, 
To save them from stark reprobation. 

He lent, then, his name to the firm. 

But we winna mention Redcastle, 

The body, e'en let him escape ! 
He'd venture the gallows for siller. 

An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape. 
And where is our king's lord lieutenant, 

Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return ? 
The billie is getting his questions, 

To say in St. Stephen's the morn. 

And there will be lads o' the gospel, 

Muirhead, wha's as good as he*s true ; 
And there will be Buittle's apostle, 

Wha's more o' the black than the blue . 
And there will be folk from St. Mary's, 

A house o' great merit and note. 
The dcil ane but honours them highly— 

The deil ane will gi'e him his vote. 

And there will be healthy young Richaru. 

Dame Fortune should hing by the neck^ 
For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing, 

His merit had won him respect ; 
And there will be rich brotlier nabobs, 

Tho' nabobs yet men of the first. 
And tiiere will be Collieston's whiskers, 

And Quintin, o' lads not the warst. 

And there will be stamp-office Johnnie, 
Tak tent how you purchase a dram ; 

And there will be gay Cassencarrie, 
And there will be gleg Colonel Tani. 



AN EXCELLENT NEW SON0, 321 

And there will be trusty Kerroughtree, 

Whose honour was ever his law, 
If the virtues were packed in a parcel, 

His worth might be sample for a'. 

And can we forget the old major, 

Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys, 
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other, 

Him only 'tis justice to praise. 
And there will be maiden Kilkerran, 

And also Barskimmiug's guid knight, 
And there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, 

Wha, luckily, roars in the right. 

And there frae the Niddesdale borders, 

Will mingle the Maxwells in droves ; 
Teugh Johnnie, stanch Geordie, and Walie 

That griens for the fishes and loaves ; 
And there will be Logan Mac Douall, 

Sculdudd'ry and he will be there, 
And also the wild Scot of Galloway, 

Sodgerin' gunpowder Blair. 

Then hey the chase interest o' Broughtoii 

And hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! 
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, 

In Sodom 'twould make him a king ; 
And hay for the sanctified Murray, 

Our laud who wi' chapels has stor'd ; 
He founder'd his horse among harlots. 

But gied the auld naig to the Lord. 



[ballad thied.] 

In iBmllmt Mm ^ii% 

Tune — Bui/ hroom besoms, 

Wha will buy my troggin, 

Fine election ware ; 
Broken trade o' Broughton, 
A' in high repair. 

Buy braw troggin, 

Frae the banks o' Dee ; 
Who wants troggin 
Let him come to me, 

There's a noble Earl's 

Fame and high renown, 
For an auld sang — 

It 8 thought the gudeswere strown, 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

21 



322 bue:n's's poetical woeks. 

Here's the worth of Broughton^ 

lu a needle's e'e : 
Here's a reputation 

Tint by Balmaghie, 

liuy braw troggiu, &C. 

Here's an honest conscience 

Might a prince adorn ; 
Frae the downs o' Tinwald— 

So was never worn. 

Buy braw troggin, &c 

Here its stuff and Hning, 

Cardoness's head j 
Fine for a sodger 

A' the wale o' lead. 

Buy braw troggin, &c 

Here's a little wadset 
Buittle's scrap o' truth, 

Pawn'd in a gin shop 
Quenching holy drouth. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's armorial bearings, 
Frae the manse o' Urr ; 
The crest an auld crab-apple, 
Kotten at the core. 
» Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here is Satan's picture, 

Like a bizzard gled, 
Pouncing poor Redcastle 

Sprawlin' as a taed. 

Buy braw troggin, &c 

Here's the worth and wisdom 

CoUieston can boast; 
By a thievish midge 

They had been nearly lost. 

Buy braw troggin, &c 

Here is Murray's fragments 

0' the ten commands ; 
Gifted by black Jock 

To get them aff his hands. 

Buy braw troggin, &c 

Saw ye e'er sic troggin ? 
If to buy ye're slack, 
Hornie's turnin' chapman— 
He'll buy a' the pack. 

Buy braw troggin 

Frae the banks o' Dcei 
Wlia* wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 



333 



^n fife. 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PETSTEP, 
DUMFRIES, 1796. 

Mt honoured colonel, deep T feel 
Your interest in tlie poets weal : 
Ah ! now sma' heart ha'e I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus hy bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

Oh what a canty wai-ld were it, 

Would pain and care and sicKuess spare it* 

And fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they deserve '. 
(And aye a rowth roast beef and claret; 

Syne wha wad starve ? ) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her. 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker, 

I've found her still 
Aye wavering like the willow-wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches like baudrons by a rattan. 
Our sinfu'' saul to get a claut on 

W^i' felon ire ; 
S}Tie, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast santott— 

He's aff hke fire. 

Auld Nick ! auld Nick ! it is na faif , 
First shewing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare. 

To put us daft ; 
SjTie weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damned waffc. 

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by, 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy. 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye. 

Thy sicker treasure ! 

Soon heel's-o'er-gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And hke a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murd'ring wrestle^ 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 



824 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

But lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us a' frae the devil ! 

Ameu! Amen! 



^irsrrijiliiiii 

POE AN ALTAE TO INDEPENDENCE. 

Thou of an independent mind, 
With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd ; 
Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, 
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 
Virtue alone who dost revere. 
Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 
Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



Oh sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave, 

My dear httle angel, for ever ; 
For ever — oh no ! let not man be a slave ; 

His hopes from existence to sever. 

Though cold be the clay where thou pillow'st thy head. 

In the dark, silent mansions of sorrow, 
The spring shall return to thy low, narrow bed, 

Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow. 

The flower-stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraph form, 

'Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom. 
When thou shrunk'st frae the scowl of the loud winter storm 

And nestled thee close to that bosom. 

Oh still I behold thee, all lovely in death, 

Kechned on the lap of thy mother; 
When the tear trickled bright, when the short, stifled breath, 

Told how dear ye were aye to each other. 

My child, thou art gone to the home of thy rest, 

Where suffering no longer can harm ye. 
Where the songs of the good, where the hymns of the blest. 

Through an endless existence shall charm thee. 

While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn. 

Through the dire desert regions of sorrow. 
O'er the liope and misfortune of being to mourn, 

And sigh for tliis hfe's latest morrow 



THE EUINED MAID S lAMENT. 
COLLECTOR OV EXCISE, DT7MPBIES, 1769 

"Feiend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alack ! alack 1 the meikle diel 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches ! 

I modestly fa' fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one, I sairly want it j 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind; 
And while my heart wi' hf-blood daunte<i^ 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 

POSTSCEIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket ; 
Grim loan ! ye got me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheukj 
But oy good luck I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a shore o't., 
And by that life, I've promised mair o't, 
My hale and weel, I'll tak a care o't, 

A tentier way ; 
Then fareweU folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye ! 



325 



THE RUINED MAID'S LAMENT, 

Oh, meikle do I rue, fause love, 

Oh sairly do I rue. 
That e'er I heard your flattering tongue, 

That e'er your face I knew. 

Oh ! I ha'e tent my rosy cheeks. 

Likewise my waist sae sma' ; 
And I tia'e lost my lightsome heart. 

That little wist a fa'. 

2© 



820 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Now I maim thole tlie scomfu* sneer 
O' mony a saucy qucau ; 

When gin the truth were a' but kent, 
Her life's been warse than mine. 

Whene'er my father thinks on me, 

He stares into the wa' ; 
My mither, she has ta'en the bed 

Wi' thinkin' on my fa'. 

Whene'er I hear my father's foot. 
My heart wad burst wi' pain ; 

Whene'ei I meet my mither's e'e, 
My tears rm down like rain. 

Alas ! sae sweet a tree as love 
Sic bitter fruit s!\ould bear ! 

Alas ! that e'er a bornie face 
Should draw a sauiy tear ! 



THE DEAN OF THE FACULTY, 

A NEW BALLAD. 

DiEE was the hate at auld Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Lanp^side saw, 

For beauteous hapless Mar}^ : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury seen, Sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job- 

Who should be faculty's Dean, Sir. 

This Hal for genus, wit, and lore, 

Among the first was number'd ; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store. 

Commandment ten remember'd. 
Yet simple Bob the victory got. 

And won his heart's desire ; 
Which shows that Heaven can boil the poi^ 

Though the devil's in the fire. 

Squire Hal besides had in this case 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So their worships of the '^ Faculty" 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye ^■ot;, 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 



^27 



As once on Pisgat purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
-So may be, on this Pisgaii height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision : 
Kay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. 



VEKSES 

m! THE DESTETJCTION OF THE WOODS NEAK DEUMLANEI&i 

As on the banks o* wandering Nith, 

Ane smiling simmer-morn I strayed, 
And traced its bonnie howes and haughs. 

Where linties sang and lambkins play'd j 
I sat me down upon a craig 

And drank my fill o' fancy's dream, 
When from the eddjing deep below. 

Uprose the genius of the stream. 

Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow. 

And troubled, like Ins wintry wave, 
And deep, as sighs the boding wind 

Amang his caves, the sigh he gave — 
** And 3'e came here^ my son," he cried, 

" To wander in my birken shade ? 
To muse some favourite Scottish theme, 

Or sing some favourite Scottish maid. 

** There was a time, it's nae lang syne, 

Ye might ha'e seen me in my pride, 
WHien a' my banks sae bravely saw 

Their woody pictures in my tide ; 
When hanging beech and spreading elm 

Shaded my stream sae clear and cool; 
And stately oaks their twisted arms 

Threw broad and dark across the pool I 

** When glinting, through the trees, appeared 

The wee white cot aboon the mill, 
And peacefu' rose its ingle reek, 

That slowly curled up the hill. 
But now the cot is bare and cauld, 

Its branchy shelter's lost and gane. 
And scarce a stinted birk is left 

To shiver in the blast is lane." 

** Alas !" said I, " what ruefu' chance 
Has twin'd ye o' your stately trees P 



323 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

Has laid your rocky bosom bare? 

Has stripp'd the deeding o' your braes ? 
Was it the bitter eastern blast, 

That scatters bliglit in early spring ? 
Or was't the wirtire scorched their boughs^ 

Or canker-worm wi' secret sting ? 

jS'ae eastlin blast," the sprite replied : 

"' It blew na here sae fierce and fell. 
And on my dry and whalesome banks 

Nae canker-worms gat leave to dwell ; 
Man ! crnel man ! " the genius sigh'd — 

As through the clifls he sank him dowir" 
*^"'he worm that gnaw'd my bonnie trees^ 

That reptile wears a ducal crown," 



How shall I sing Drnmlanrig's Grace — 
Discarded remnant of a race 

Once great in martial story ? 
His forbears' virtues all contrasted— 
The very name of Douglas blasted— 

His that inverted glory. 

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore; 
But he has superadded more. 

And sunk them in contempt ; 
Follies and crimes have stain'd the name^ 
But, QueensbeiTy, thine the vii*gin claim, 

From aught that's good exempt. 



VERSES TO JOHN M'MTJKDO, ES(^ 
[with a peesent of books.] 

Oh, could I give thee India's wealth 

As I this trifle send, 
Because thy joy in both would be 

To share them with a friend. 

But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconian stream ; 
Then take what gold could never buy — 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



ON MR. M'MURDO. 

flffSCEIBED ON A PANE OP GLASS IN HIS nOTTSBt 

Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day ! 
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening my • 



2'IBBIE I HA'e seen THE ©AT. 829 

^0 wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care, 

^""J'or ever sorrow add one silver hair ! 

Oh, may no son the father's honour stain, * 

jN'or ever daughter give the mother paia! 



Tou'ee welcome, Willie Stewart, 
YoTi're welcome, Willie Stewart, 

Tliere's ne'er a flower that blooms in May^ 
That's half's sae welcome's thou art. 

Come, bumpers high, express your joy, 

The bowl we maun renew it ; 
The tappit-hen gae bring her ben, 

To welcome WiUie Stewart. 

May foes be Strang, and friends be slack. 

Ilk action may he rue it ; 
May woman on him turn her back. 

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart. 



[with a EEESENT 05 BOOKS.] 

THi2fE be the volumes, Jessy fair. 
And ^vith them take the Poet's prayer— 
That Fate may in her fairest page, 
With ev'ry kindliest, best presage 
Of future bhss enrol thy name : 
With native worth, and spotless fam% 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare.; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
Are all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward; 
"So prays thy faithful fiiend the bard. 

Tune — Invercauld's Beel, 

Oh Tibbie, I ha'e seen the day 
Ye wad na been sae shy ; 

For lack o' gear ye slighted dm^ 
But, trowth, I care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor. 
Ye spak na, but gaed by Hke stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
JBut fient a hair care I. 

2dS 



830 BUEIfs's POETICAL "W0BK8* 

I douLt na, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye ha'e the uarae o'cUnk, 
That ye can please me at a wink. 

Whene'er ye hke to tiy. 
But sorrow tak him that's sae mea% 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy q\iean, 

That looks sae proud and high. 
Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart. 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Te*ll cast your head another airt,. 

And answer him fu' dry. 
But if he ha'e the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, 

Be better than the kye. 
But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice;. 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 

Were ye as poor as I. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I would nae gie her in her sark. 
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark ; 
Ye need na look sae high. 



31niitgiiiiiBnf 3 f Bggq. 

Tune — Galla- Water, 
Altho' my bed were in yon muir 

AjTiang the heather, in my plaidie. 
Yet happy, happy would I be, 

Had I my dear ^lontgomery's Peggy, 
When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 

And winter nights were dark and rainy. 
I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 

I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy. 
Were I a baron proud and high, 

And horse and servants waiting ready. 
Then a 'twad gi'e o' joy to me, 

The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy 



lanKij |3i!ggi} £lisnii. 

Tune — Braes o' Balquhidder* 

CHORUS. 
I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 

And I'll kiss the o'er again ;. 
And I'll kiss thee, yet, yet. 

My bounie Peggy Alison j 



seee's to thy eealth, my bonjty ilass. 333. 

Hk care and fear, wlien thou art near, 

I never mair defy tliem, ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throne 

Are no sae blest as I am, ! 

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charm-s, 

I clasp my countless treasure, O, 
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure, 01 

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever, O ! 
And on thy Hps I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never, ! 



im's in ti'i ^Mitlr, roq kmt tarn. 

TujTE — Xiaggan Burru 

Heee's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 

Guid night, and joy be wi' thee ; 
I'U come nae mair to thy bower-door. 

To tell thee that I loe thee : 
Oh dinna think, my pretty pink. 

But I can live without tliee; 
I vow and swear I dmna cai*e 

How lang ye look about ye. 

Tliou'rt aye sae free informing me 

Thou hast nae mind to marry, 
I'U be as free informing thee 

Nae time ha'e I to tarry. 
I ken thy friends try ilka means, 

Frae wedlock to delay thee. 
Depending on some higher chance — 

But fortune may betray thee. 

I ken they scorn my low estate. 

But that does never gi'ieve me ; 
But I'm as free as any he, 

Sma' siller will reheve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth. 

Sae long as I'll enjoy it ; 
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want. 

As lang's I get employment. 

But far-off fowls ha'e feathers fair. 

And aye until ye try them, 
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care. 

They may prove worse than I am. 
But at twilit night, when the mo-ju sJiinos bright 

"My dear, I'll come and see thee ; 
For the man that lo'es his mistress weel, 

Nae travel makes liim weary. 



^•^•- BTJRlfs's POETICAL TTORHS. 

f miiig pm- 

IvsB — T7ie last time I came o'er the Muir» 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass^ 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosj^ dawn the springing grass 

With early gems adorning ; 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams. 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips, more than the cherries bright^ 

A richer dye has grac'd them ; 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight. 

And sweetly tem.pt to taste them : 
Her smile is as the evening mild, 

When feather'd tribes are courting. 
And little lambkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As blooming spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage winter. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain. 

Her winning powers to lessen. 
And fretful Euvy grins in vain, 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 

Ye pow'rs of honour, love, and truths 

From every ill defend her j 
Inspire the highly-favour'd youth, 

The destinies intend her : 
Still fan the sweet, connubial flame 

Eesponsive in each bosom. 
And ])less the dear, parental name 

With many a filial blossom. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN. 

A ItALLAD. 

TiTEEE were three kings into the cast, 
'J'hree kings both great and high. 

And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath 
John IJarleycorn should die. 

The took a plough and plough'd him down. 

Put clods upon his head ; 
And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath 

John I3arle3'corn was dead. 



JOnX BAELEYCOEK-. 333 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 

Aud show'rs began to fall, 
John Barlc\Torn got up again, 

And sore surpris'd them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 

And he grew thick aud strong. 
His head weel arm'd \vi' pointed spears, 

That no one should him wrong. 

The sober autumn entered mild, 

When he grew wan and pale ; 
His bending joints and drooping head 

Show'd he began to fail. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

Pie faded into age. 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
The}^ tied liim fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

The3^ laid hira down upon his back, 

And cudgei'd him full sore ; 
They Imng him up before the storm, 

And tnrn'd him o'er and o'er. 

The}^ filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim : 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 

They laid him out upon the floor 

To work him farther woe ; 
And still, as signs of life appear'd, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted o'er a scorching flame 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller used him warst of all. 

For he crush'd him 'tvveen two stones. 

And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blood 

And drunk jt round and round ; 
And still the more and more they drank, 

Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise ; 
For if you do l)ut taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise; 

'Twill make a man forget his woe^ 
'Twill heighten all his joy ; 



334 EUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 
Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 
Each man a glass in hand, 

And may his great posterity 
Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



ijis nigs n' larlri];. 

Tune — Corn Rigs are honnie. 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

Wlien corn rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I heft awa to Annie : 
The time flew by with tentless heed, 

Till 'tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed 

To see me through the barley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still. 

The moon was shining clearly'- ; 
I sat her down wi' right good will 

Amang the rigs o' barley ; 
I kent her heart was a' my ain, 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace, 

Her heart was beating rarely ; 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 
But by the moon and stars so briglit. 

That shone that hour so clearly. 
She aye shall bless that happy night 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I ha'e been blythe wi' comrades dear, 

I ha'e been merry drinkin' ; 
I ha'e been joj'fu', gath'ring gear, 

I ha'e been happy thinkin' : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a*. 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



Corn rigs and barley rigs. 
And corn rigs are bonnie ; 

ril ne'er forget that happy niglit 
Amang the rigs wi' Aunie^ 



SONG COMPOSED IN AUGrST. 336 

SIlB f InUgfjlME, 

Tuine — TTjp wi the Tloughman. 

The ploughman lie's a bonnie lad. 

His mind is ever true, jo ; 
His garters knit below bis knee. 
His bonnet it is blue, jo, 

Then up wi' my ploughman lad, 

And hey, my merry ploughman ! 
Of a' the trades that I do ken, 
Commend me to ^he ploughman. 

Mj^ ploughman he comes hame at e'en. 

He's aften wet and weary ; 
Cast aff the wat, put on the dry. 

And gae to bed, my dearie ! 

I will wash my ploughman's hose 

And I will dress his o'erlay ; 
I will mak my ploughman's bed. 

And cheer him late and early. 

I ha'e been east, I ha'e been west, 

I ha'e been at St. Johnston ; 
The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 

Was the ploughman laddie dancin*. 

Snaw-white stockings on his legs, 

And siller buckles glancin' ; 
A guid blue bouriet on his head— 

And oh, but he was handsome ! 

Commend me to the barn-yard, 

And at the corn-mou, man ; 
I never gat my coggie fou, 

Till I meet wi' the ploughman. 



SONG COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 
Tui^^E — I had a horse, I had nae mair, 

Now westling winds and slaughtering guns 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wing, 

Amang the blooming heather ; 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain. 

Delights the weary farmer, 
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night. 

To muse upon my charmer. 

The patridge loves the fruitful fells. 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells. 

The soaiing hern the fountains ; 



S36 BUENfl'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

Thro* lofty groves the cusliat roves, 
The path of man to shun it ; 

The hazel busli o'erhangs the thrush. 
The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender, 
Some social join, and leagues combine; 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway. 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportman's joy, the mm'd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring gory pinion. 

But Peggy, dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading green and yellow ; 
Come, let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And every happy creature. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
ni grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest. 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding ilow'rs. 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer I 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS 

Tune — Yon wild mossy Mountains, 

On wild iriDss}^ mountains, sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed. 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. 

Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed. 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. 

Not Cowrie's nch valhes, nor Forth's sunny shores. 
To me ha'e the charms o' yon wild mossy moors ; 
For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, 
llcsides a sweet lassie, my thought and my di'eam. 
For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream. 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my di-eam. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath: 
For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
Whik* o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love. 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us unliecded flee the swift hours o* lova 



MX KAwiriF, o. 837 

}§lie is not the fairest, altlio' she is fair ; 

O' nice education, but sma' is lier share; 

Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 

But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 
Her parentage humble as humble can be : 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me» 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize. 

In her armour of glances, her brushes, and sighs ! 

And when wit and refinement ha'e polisfrd her dartsy 

The)' dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts. 
When wit and refinement ha'e pc^sh'd her darts. 
They daz:&le our een, as they flee to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling e'e. 

Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 

And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms. 

Oh, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 

And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms. 
Oh, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms I 



Tune — ^Jfy Nannie, O, 

BEHiisru yon hiUs where Lugar flows, 
'Mang moors and mosses many, O, 

The wintry day the sun has clos'd. 
And I'll awa' to Nannie, 0. 

The westlin wind blaws loud and shrill ; 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, O ; 
But I'U get my plaid, and out I'll steal. 

And owre the hiUs to Nannie, 0. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, and young j 
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O : 

May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 

Her face is fair, her heart is true. 
As spotless as she's bonnie, : 

The op'ning gowau, wet wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, 0. 

A country lad is my degree, 

And few there be that ken me, O ; 

But what care I how few they be ? 
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O, 

My riches a's my penny-fee, 
And I maun guide it cannie, Oj 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. 



22 



2B 



S38 BUEXS'S POETICAL ^70EES. 

Our old guidman delights to \4evv 
His sheep and kye thrive bonuie, O; 

Bat I'm as blythe that hands his pleugli. 
And hu'e nae care but Nannie, O. 

Come weal, eome woe, I care nae by, 
I'll tak what Heaven will sen' me, ; 

Nae ither care in Hfe have I, 
But live and love my Nannie, 0. 



GKEEN GROW THE RASHES. 

TtJifE — Ch^eengrow the BasJies, 
cnoEUS, 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 

Green grow the rashes, ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er 1 spend 

Are spent amang the lasses, 0. 

There's nought but care on ev'ry ban', 

In every hour that passes, O : 
Wliat signifies the life o' man. 

An 'twere na for the lasses, 0, 

The warly race may riches chase, 
And riches still may fl}' them, ; 

And tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O, 

But gi'e me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arras about my dearie, O ; 

And w^arl'ly cares, and warl'ly men, 
May a' gae tapsaltcerie, 0. 

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, : 

Tlie wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, 0. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O : 

Her 'prentice ban' she tried on man, 
And then she made the lasses, 0. 



THE CURE FOR ALL CARE. 

TtJNE — PreparCj ir^i/ dear hretJiren, to the Tavern let's fi^^ 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write. 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight. 
No sly man of business contriving a snare — 
For a big-ln^llied bottle's the whole of my care. 



ON CESSIfOCK BANKS. 339 

Tlie peer I don't envy, I give him his bough ; 
I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 
But a chib of good fellows, like those that are here, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse; 
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse ; 
But see you The Crown, hov^ it waves in the air I 
There a big-beUied bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big-beUied bottle's a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform 'd me that all was to WTCck ;— 
But the pm'sy old landlord just waddled up stairs, 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

" Life's cares they are comforts" — a maxim laid down 
By the bard, what dy'e call him, that wore the black gown; 
And, faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-bellied bottle's a heav'n of care. 

ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erilow. 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and square 
Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with care ! 



ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 
Tune — If he ho a BittcTier neat and trirru 

On Cressnock banks there lives a lass, 
Could I describe her shape and mien ; 

The graces of her weel-faur'd face. 
And the glancin' of her sparklin' een I 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 
Wlien rising Phoebus first is seen, 

Wlien dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
And she's twa glancin', sparkhn' een. 

She stately, like yon youthful ash, 
That grows the cowsHp braes between, 

And shoots its head above each bush ; 
And she's twa glancin', sparkhn' een. 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn, 
Wi' fiow'rs so white, and leaves so green. 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 



340 BtJRXS's rOETICAL WOEEg. 

Iler looks are like the sportive lamb, 
When flovv'iy Mri}^ adorns the scene, 

That wantons round its bleatinj^ dam ! 
And she's twa glancin', sparkHn' een. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 
That shades the mountain side at e'en, 

\Vlien flow'r-reviving rains are past; 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
When shining sunbeams intervene, 

And gild the distant mountain's brow, 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 

Her voice is like the evening thrush 
That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe 

That sunny walls from Boreas screen — 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight; 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces newly washen clean, 

T]iat slowly mount the rising steep ; 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 

Her breath is like the fi*agrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean. 

When Pha^bus sinks beneath the seas ; 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 
^ But the mind that shines in every grace, 

And chiefly in her sparklin' een. 



Tune — The DcuTcs dang o^er my Daddjf t 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair. 

Shall ever be my muse's care ; 

Their titles a' are empty show, 

Gi'e me my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plains sae rushy, O, 
I sit me down wi' right good will, 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 



POWEES CELESTIAL. 341 

Oil were yon hills and vallies mine, 
Yon palace and yon garden fine, 
The world then the love should know, 
I bear my Highland lassie, O. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me. 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow, 
I'll love my Highland lassie, 0. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change. 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow 
My faithful Highland lassie, O. 

For her I'll dare the billows' roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore. 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my Highland lassie, O. 

She has my heart, she has my hand. 
By sacred truth and honour's band ! 
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O ! 
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O ! 
To other lands I now must go, 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 



POWERS CELESTIAL. 
Tune — Blue Bonnets, 

Powers celestial ! whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair. 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary bo your care : 
Let her fo^m, sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own. 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast. 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Soothe her bosom into rest. 
Guardian angel ! Oh protect her. 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 

Make her bosom stiU my home. 



2b3 



342 BTTENS'S POETICAL "SVOfiKS. 

FROM THEE, ELIZA. 
Tune — Gilderoyy or Donald. 

Feom thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore, 
The cruel Fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring \vide. 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

M}" heart and soul from thee! 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore, 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more ! 
The latest throb that leaves my heart, 

While Death stands victor by, 
That throb, EHza, is thy part, 

And thine that latest sigh I 



MENIE. 

Tune — Johnny's grey BreeJcs. 

Ag-ain rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze. 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 
And maun I still on "Menie doat, 

And bear the scorn that's in her ee ? 
For it's jet, jet black, andHke a hawk. 
And winna let a body be. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks; 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

Tlie stately swan majestic swims, 
And everything is blest but I. 

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owrc the moorland whistles shrill ; 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 



THE BEAES O' BALLOCHMTLE. 843 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 

BIythe waukens by the daisy's side, 
And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 

A woe- worn ghaist I hameward glide. 

Come, Winter, with tliine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree : 
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 

When nature all is sad like me I 



THE FAREWELL. 

TO THE BRETHEEN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, TAEBOLTON, 

TtTNE — Good N'ight, and Jot/ he w'C yon a' .' 

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu I 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie I 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, 

Companions of my social joy ; 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie. 

Pursuing Fortune's slipp'ry ba'. 
With melting heart and brimful eye, 

1*11 mind you still, though far awa*. 

Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive night 
Oft honour'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light; 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

"Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa'. 

May freedom, harmony, and love 

Unite you in the grand design. 
Beneath the Omniscient Eye above, 

The Glorious Architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line. 

Still rising by the plummet's law. 
Till order bright completely shine. 

Shall be my prayer when far awa'. 

And you, farewell, whose merits claim 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name^ 

To masonry and Scotia dear : 
A last request permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
One round — I ask it with a tear — 

To him — the Bard that's far awa*. 



844 BUENS'S POETICAL W0EK8. 

THE BRAES 0' BALL0CH:\IYLE. 

TvsB^The Braes o' Balloclimyle, 

The Catrlne woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea, 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green. 

But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the whik, 
And aye the wild- wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in 5'our wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair. 
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers. 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or flow'ret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Ballochmyle. 



THE LASS 0' BALLOCHMYLE. 
Tune — Miss Forhes's Faretoell to Banf 

'T WAS even — the dewj^ fields were green. 

On ev'ry blade the pearlies hang, 
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean. 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature list'ning seem'd the wliile, 
Except where greenwood echoes rang 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd, 

My heart rojoic'd in nature's joy, 
When, musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whisper'd, passing by. 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flow'ry IMay, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild ; 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wand'ring in the loiiel}^ wild : 
But woman, Nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile; 
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonnie lass of Ballochmyle. 



THE GLOOMY IS'IGHT IS GATnEEI2fG PAST, 345 

Oil, had she been a county maid, 

And I the happy conntry swain, 
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain ; 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain. 

With joy, with rapture I would toil, 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep> 

Or downward seek the Indian mine : 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks, or till the soil. 
And every day have joys divine 

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



THE GLOOMY NIGHT IS GATHERING FAST 
TvTSB—EosUn Castle, 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast. 
Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast ; 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor. 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure ; 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The autumn moui'ns her rip'ning corn, 
By earlj^ winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly, 
Chilis my blood to hear it rave : 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

'T is not the surging billows' roar, 
'T is not that fatal, deadly shore, 
Tho' death in every shape appear. 
The ^vTetched have no more to fear ! 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierc'd wi' many a wounJ, 
These bleed afi*esli, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonny banks of A}t. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales. 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
To scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves I 



316 EUE^'3'3 POETICAL WORKS. 

Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! 
^ly peace with these, my love with those ; 
The bursting tears my heart declare; 
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr. 



THE BANKS 0' BOON". 
Tune — Caledonian Hunt's Deliglit, 

Ye hanks and brpes o' bonnie Boon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair j 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary fu' o' care ? 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bir^ 

That wanton'st thro' the tlow'ring thorn, 
Thou mind'st me o' departed joys, 

Departed — never to return ! 

Aft ha'e I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
\Vi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fuse luver stole my rose. 

But, ah I he left the thorn wi' me. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 

Tune — The BirTcs of Alergeldy, 

cnoKUS. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go. 
Will ye go, will ye go ; 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 

To the birks of Aberfeldy ? 

Now simmer blinks on flow'ry braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come, let us spend the lightsome day3 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

The little birdies blithely sing, 
While o'er their heads the hazels hing. 
Or lightly Hit on wanton wing, 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

The braes ascend, like lofty wa'a, 
The foamy stream, deep-roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant, spreading shawi. 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 



MACrnERSON's FAREWELL. 347 

The hoary. cliUs are crown'd wi' flowerg, 
White o'er the Hnii the burnie pours, 
And rising, v/eets wi' misty showers 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest with love and thee, 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 



TiJif E — Tin owre young to marry yeU 

I AM my mammy's ae bairn, 

Wi' iinco folk I weary, Sir, 
And if I gang to j^our house, 

I'm fley'd 'twill make me eerie, Sir. 

I'm owre young to marry yet, 
I'm owre young to marry yet ; 

I'm owre young — 'twad be a sin 
To take me fi-ae my mammy yet. 

Hallowmas is come and gane, 
The nights are lang in winter. Sir; 

And you and I in wedlock's bands, 
In troth, I dare not venture, Sir. 
I'm owre young. &c. 

Fu' loud and shrill the fi'osty wind 
Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, Sir; 

But if ye come this gate again, 
I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 
I'm owre yomig, &c. 



SH'fljErsnn's $mm[l 

Tune — M^ FhersorCs Bant 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong-, 

The wretch's destinie ; 
Macpherson's time will not be long 

On yonder gallows-tree. 
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, 

Below the gallows-tree 

Oh, what is death, but parting breath P— 

On many a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ; 



348 BUENS'S POETICiX -^OEKS. 

Untie the bands from off my hands, 
And bring to me my sword ; 

And there's no man in all Scotland, 
But I'll brave him at a word. 

Tve liv'd a life of sturt and strife; 

I die by treacherie ; 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! 



How long and dreary is the night 
When I am fi'ae my deai'ie ! 

I sleepless He frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 

When I think on the happy days 
I spent wi' you, my dearie, 

And now what lauds between us lie. 
How can I be but eerie ! 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours. 

As ye were wae and weary ! 
It was na sae ye ghnted by, 
When I was wi' my dearie. 
It was na sae ye ghnted by. 
When I was wi' my dearie. 



im' K liEaltli tn iljtm tfiat's hm 

Tune — JELere^s a SeaWi to them tJiafs awcu 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, 

May never guid luck be their fa' ! 

It's good to be merry and wise, 

It's good to be honest and true, 

It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 

And bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa; 
Here's a health to Charhe, the chief o' the dan, 
Altho' that his band be sma'. 



THE BANKS OF THE DEYOB'. 3iQ 

May liberty meet with success ! 
May prudence protect her frae evil ! 
May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 
And wander their way to the devil ! 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, 

That lives at the lug o' the law ; 

Here's freedom to him that wad read ! 

Here's freedom to him that wad write ; 

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard. 

But they wham the truth wad indite. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain worth gow'd, 

Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 

Here's friends on both sides of the Forth, 

And friends on both sides of the Tweed; 

And wha wad betray old Albion's rights. 

May they never eat of her bread. 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMEjSTT. 

Thickest night, overhang my dwelling I 
Howhng tempests, o'er me rave ! 

Turbid torrents, wintry sweUing, 
StiU sm'round my lonely cave I 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing. 
Busy haunts of base mankind. 

Western breezes softly blowing. 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged. 

Wrongs injurious to redress, 
Honour's war we strongly waged. 

But the heavens denied success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend : 

The wide world is all before us — 
But a world without a friend. 



THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 

Tune — Bhannerach dhon na chri. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, 
With green spreading bushes and flowers blooming fair I 

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Aj-r. 

2 B 



350 BUEXS'S rOETICAL WOEKS. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing llowci- 

In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew j 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,- 

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 
Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes , 

With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn 3 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 

The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lihes, 

And England, triumphant, display her proud Hose: 
A fairer than either adorns the green valhes, 

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandermg flows. 



BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. 

Tune— JVei? Grow' s Lamentation for Ahercairny, 

Wheee, braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Far in then: shade my Peggy's chai'ms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 

As one, who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild sequester'd shade. 

And blest the day and hour, 
"Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 

The tyrant death, with grim control, 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



Tune — My Feggifs Face. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind. 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, ^ 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair 
Her native grace, so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye. 
The kindling lustre of an eye : 



EI&HLAND jETAEET. ^3^ 

Who but owns their macric sway ' 
Who but knows they alf decay ! 
The tender thrill, th«i>itying tear, 
The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look that rag-e disarms— 
These are all immortal charms. 



Enmug BiEirs mn^ tju llnmiig. 

^TJUCE—Macgreffor ofRuara's Lament. 

Having winds around her blowing. 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowin^- 
By a river hoarsely roaring, "^^ 

Isabella stray'd depkring — 
^Farev/ell hours that late did measure 
bunshme days of joy and pleasure; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no mGrrowl 

jO'er the past too fondly wandering, 
Un the hopeless future pondering; 
€hilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
i ell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing. 
Load to misery most distressing, 
■Gladly how would I resign thee. 
And to dark oblivion join thee ! " 



HIGHLAND HARRY. 

^^Harry was a gallant gay, 

Fu' stately strode he on the plain. 
iJut now he's banish'd far away, 
111 never see him back again. 
Oh for him back again ; 

Oh for him back again ! 
I wad gi'e a' Knockhaspie's land 
For Highland Harry backagaiifc 

When a' the lave gae to their bed, 

I wander dowie up the glen ; 
I sit me down and greet my fill, 

And aye I wish him back again. 
On were some villains hangit hi^-fe 

And ilka body had their ain ! "^ ' 
Then I might see the joyfu' sight, 

My Highland Harry back agaia. 



352 BUENS'S POETICAL VOEKS. 

MUSING ON THE EOARING OCEAN. 
TvSTi-^Druimion Duhh. 

Musing on the roanng ocean, 
Whicli divides my love and me ; 

Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he he. 

Mope and fear's alternate hiilow 
Yielding late to nature s law, 

Whisp'ring spirits round my piUow 
Talk af him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded,. 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-uutrouhled, joy surrounded. 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou hefriend me ;. 

Downy sleep, the cnrtam draw 5. 
Spirits kind, again attend me. 

Talk of liim that's far awa I 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 
Tune— J.wc?ro and Us Cidty G^ity 

CHOEUS. 

Blythe, hlythe and merry was she 
Blythe was she, hutt and ben : 

Blythe by the hanks of Ern, 
And hlythe in Glentwrit glen. 

By Auchtertyre grows the aik, 

On Yarrow banks the hirken shawj- 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes 0' Yarrow ever saw. 

Her looks were like a flower in May 
Her smile was like a simmer morn 5. 

She tripped by the banks 0' Ern, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lea ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the blink 0' Themie's ce. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide. 
And o'er the lowlands I ha e been; 

But Phemie was the blythcst lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 



J 



THE BLUDE-EED EOSE. 

TfiE GALLANT WEAVER. 

TuKE — The Weavers^ March, 

Where Cart rins rowin' to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, 
TThere lives ^ lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh, I had wooers aucht or nine, 
They gied me rings and ribhons fine ; 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band. 

To gi'c the lad that has the land ; 

But to my heart I'll add my hand. 

And gi'e it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees delight in op'ning flowers ! 
While corn grows green in simmer showfflas, 
I'll love my gaUant weaver. 



^58 



THE BLUDE-RED ROSE AT YULE MAY BLAW. 

Tune — To daunton me. 

The blude-red rose at Yule may l)law, 
The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, 
The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; 
But an auld man shaU never daunton me. 

To daunton me, and me so young, 
W^i' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
¥ov an auld man shall never daunton me. 

For a' his meal and a' his maut. 
For a' his fresh beef and his saut, 
For a' his gold and white monie, 
An auid man shall never daunton me. 

His gear may buy him kye and yowes, 
His gear may buy him glens and knowes ; 
But me he shaU not buy nor fee. 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

He hirples twa-fold as he dow, 
Wi' his teethless gab and his auld held pov, 
And the ra^n rains down from his red bleer'd ee— 
"That auld man shall never daunton me. 

2r3 

23 



354 BURNS'S POETICAL "WORKS. 

Tune — The Bose-hud, 

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk. 

All on a dewy morning. 
'Ere twice tlie shades o' dawn are fled. 
In a' its crimson glorj^ spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 

It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest, 
A little Hnnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast, 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood. 
The pride, the pleasm*e a' the wood, 
Amang the fi^sh green leaves bedew'd 

Awake the eaiiy mornmg. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair I 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tends thy early morning. 
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay^ 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
Aad bless the parent's evening ray 

Tliat watch'd thy early morning. 



BONNIE CASTLE GORDON, 

Tune— Jibm^. 

Streams that gUde in orient plains. 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 

Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 

From Tyranny's empurpled bands; 
These, their richly gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 

The banks by Castle-Gordon. 

Spicy fovests, ever gay. 
Shading from the bm*ning ray 

Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way, 
IJcnt on slnAighter, blood, and spoil? 
Woods tliat ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave : 
Crive me the groves that lofty brav» 

The storms by Castls-Gordcn. 



i 



WHEN JANUAE WIN-IX. 555 

Wildly here witho'at control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole; 

In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 

She plants the forest, pours the floods 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave. 
Where watei's flow and wild woods wave, 

By bonnie Castle- Gordon 



WHEN JANUAR' WIND. 

Tune — The Lass iJiat made the Bed to 3I(k 

When Januar' wind was hlawing cauld. 

As to the north I took my way, 
The mirksome night did me enfauld, 

I knew na where to lodge till day. 

By my good luck a maid I met, 

Just in the middle o' my care ; 
And kindly she did me invite 

To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 
And thank'd her for her courtesie, 

I bow'd fu' low uuto this maid, 
And bade her mak a bed to me. 

She made the bed baitli large and wide, 
Wi' twa white hands she spread it dmvn; 

She put the cup to her ros}^ Hps, 

And drank, " Young man, now sleep ye smmj 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand. 
And frae my chamber went wi' speed ; 

But I call'd her quickly back again, 
To lay some mair below my head. 

A cod she laid below my head. 

And served me wi' due respect ; 
And to salute her wi' a kiss, 

I put my arms about her neck. 

" Hand afFj'-our hands, young man," she saj'S 

"And dinna sae uncivil be: 
If ye lia'e ony love for me. 

Oh wrang na my virginitie !" 

Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 

Her teeth were like the ivorie ; 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 

The lass tliat made the bed to me. 



^Q EURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Her bosom was the driven snaw, 
Twa drifted heaps sae lair to see , 

Her lips the poUsh-d i^f^.^^ ,^^,^^^. 
The lass that made the bed to me, 

I kiss'd her owTC and owre again. 
And aye she wist na vyhat to say , 

I laid her 'tween me and the wa 
The lassie thonght na lang till day. 

Upon the morrow when wo rose, 
I thank'd her for her courtesie ; 

p-ut aye she blnsh'd, and aye she sigh d. 
And said, " Alas \ ye've rmn d me. 

T r>1n<;T^'d her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 

^ Whne the tlr stood t^vinklin' m her ce ; 

I s-iid " Mv lassie, dmna cry. 
For ye aye shall mak the bed to me. 

She took her mither^s Holland sheets. 
And made them a' m sarks to me . 

IMvthe and merry may she be 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

The bonnie lass made the ^f^'l^^^l . 
The braw lass made the bed to me ; 
I'll ne'er forj?et till the day I die, 
The Us that made the bed to me' 

THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVEK 

Tune— H"om^. 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes. 
The snaws the mountains cover ; 

l.ika winter on me seizes, 

Since my yomigHigland rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

]\ray Heaven be his w^arden. 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon I 

The trees now naked groaning,^ 
Shall soon wi' leaves be hmgmg, 

Th'^ birdies dowie moaning. 
Shall V be blythcly singing, 
And every tlower be springing. 

Sao I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 
When by his mighty warden 

My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle-Gordon. 



BLOOMING KELLY. 

%mmt Ina. 

AiE — T'e gallants bright 

Ye gallants bright, I red ye right, 

Beware o' boniiie ATin ' 
Jler comely face sae fu' of grace 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
S<ie jimply lac'd her genty waist. 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Touth, grace, and love attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering arms. 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands, 

Ihit love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a', 

lieware o' bonnie Ann ! 



357 



BLOOMING NELLY. 
Tune — On a JBanh ofFlowers, 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer daj^ 

For summer lightly drest, 
The youthful blooming Nelly lay, 

With love and sleep opprest : 
V/ben Willie, wand'ring through the woo<" 

Who for her favour oft had sued, 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd. 

He trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd, 

Were seal'd in soft repose ; 
Her lips still as she frag-rant breath'd 

It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly prest, 

Wild — Nvanton, kiss'd her rival breast; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd. 

His bosom ill at rest. 



Her robes light waving in the breeze. 

Her tender limbs embrace ; 
Her lovely form, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace : 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 

A faltering, ardent kiss he stole ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd- 

And sigh'd his very soul. 



BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

As flies the partridge from the brake, 

On fear-inspired wings, 
So Nelly starting, half awake, 

Away affi*ighted springs : 

But Willie followed, as he should. 
He overtook her in the wood ; 

He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 
Forgiving all and good. 



MY BONNIE MARY. 

Tune — Go Fetch to me a Fint o' Wine 
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine. 



And fill it in a silver tassie ; 

! 



That I may drink, before I go, ■ 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry 
The ship rides by the Bervv'ick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready . 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' w^ar that's heard afar — 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mar}'. 



M iFniiii Hiss. 

Tune — Eory JDalVs Fort. 

Ane fond kiss and then we sever; 
Ane farewell — alas ! for ever ! 
Deep fn heart-wTung tears I'll pledge theo. 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him c* 
jMe, nae cheerfu' twinkle hghts me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy 
Naething could resist mj"^ Nancy, 
But to see her was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly. 
Had we never lov'd sae bhndly, 
Never met, or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 



THE LAZY MIST. SoQ 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest . 
lliine be ilka joy and treasure, 
I*eace, enjoj^ment, love, and pleasure I 
Ane fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ane fareweel — alas ! for ever ! 
Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee I 



Tune — The Bonnie Bell. 

The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly Winter grimly flies ; 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies. 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the mvirning, 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejojce in my bonnie BeU. 

The flowery Spring leads sunny summer. 

And j^ellow Autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter. 

Till smiling spring appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging, 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



Tune — The Lazy Mist, 

Tlie lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 
Concealing the course of the dark-winding lill ; 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear I 
As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year. 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues ! 

How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd in vain I 
How little of life's scanty span may remain ! 
What aspects old Time in his progress has worn ; 
What ties cruel fate in my bosom has torn ! 

How fooHsh, or worse, till our summit is gain'd ! 
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd ! 
This life's not worth having, with all it can give — 
For something beyond it poor man sure must hve ! 



360 BUfiNS's POETICAL WOEKS. 

M a' tlfi! airts t^e Wmt tan 5Slaiit. 

Op a' the airts the \\4iid can hlaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the honnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a liill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever \\i' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

Oh blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 

Amang the leafy trees, 
Wi' balmy gale, fi'ae hill and dale 

Bring hame the laden bees ; 
And bring the lassie back to me 

That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
Ane smile o' her wad banish care, 

Sae charming is my Jean ! 

Wliat sighs and vows amang the knowo 

Ha'e passed at ween us twa ! 
How fond to meet, how wae to part. 

That night she gaed awa ! 
The powers aboon can only ken. 

To whom the heart is seen. 
That nane can be sae dear to mo 

As my sweet lovely Jean. 



Tune — Jfy Love is lost to me. 

Oh, were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of HeUcon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my muse's well, 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel' ! 
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell. 

And write how dear I love thee. 



MY HEART S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 361 

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay, 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day 
I couldna sing, I couldna say, 

How much, how dear, I love thee, 
I see thee dancing o'er the green. 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae cleau 
Thy tempting Hps, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame. 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflaraej 
And aye I muse and sing thy name — 

I only hve to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun. 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 

Till then — and then I love thee. 



TxTNE — Cajptuin O'Kean. 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, 

Tlie miurm'ring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale ; 
The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning. 

And wild scatter'd cowshps bedeck the green dale ; 
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, 

Wliile the lingering moments are numbered by care ? 
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing.. 

Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice, 

A king and a father to place on his throne ? 
His right are these hills, and his right are these vallies. 

Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none. 
But 'tis not my suflerings thus wi'etched, forlorn ; 

My brave gallant friends ! 'tis your ruin I mourn f 
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody trial — 

Alas ! I can make you no sweeter return ! 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

Tune — JFailte na Misog. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not heK», 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the NortL, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

2g 



862 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow ; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer : 
Cliasing the wild deer, and following the roe — 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 



Tune — John Anderson my jo, 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were hke the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now j^our brow is bald, John, 

Y^our locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither. 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither. 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go 
And sleep thegither at the toot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



TO MARY IN HEiWEN. 

Tune— Dea^f/i of Captain Cook. 

Tnou lingering star with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the earl}^ morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My IMary from my soul was torn. 
Oh Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

llear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

Til at sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ! 
i^tornity will not efiace 

Those records dear of transports past ;— 
Thy image at our last embrace, 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last I 



THE DAY RETURNS. 363 

Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green, 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene. 
The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray — • 
Till soon, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes. 

And fondly broods with miser care I 
Time but tli' impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of bhssful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast. 



Tuis^E — Young Jockey. 

Young Jockey was the blythest lad 

In a' our town or here awa : 
Fu' blji:he he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha'. 
He roosed my een, sa bonnie blue, 

He roosed my waist, sae genty smal. 
And aye my heart came to my mou* 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thio' wind and weet, through frost and snaw, 
And o'er the lea I leuk fu' fain. 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. 
Aftid aye the night come round again, 

When in his arms he takes me a*. 
And aye he vows he'll be my ain. 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



Tune — Seventh ofNovembevM 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho* winter wild in tempest toil'd, 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Heav'n gave me more — it made thee mine. 



S64 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Wliile day and ni^lit can bring delight. 

Or nature aught of pleasure give, 
While joys above my mind can move. 

For thee, and thee alone, I live. 
When that grim toe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part. 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart ! 



TvN-B—WilUe Brevod a Fech o' Mavi. 

Oh, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut. 

And Kob and Allan came to pree, 
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night. 
Ye wad na find in Christendie, 
We are na fou', we're no that fou*. 

But just a drappie in our ee ; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw. 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys. 
Three merry boys, I trow, are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been. 
And mony mae we hope to be ! 

It is the moon, I ken her horn. 

That's blinkin' in the hft sae high ; 

She shines sae bright to wile us hame. 
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa*, 

A cuckold, coward loon is he ! 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa*. 

He is the kmg amang us three ! 



I GAED A WAEFU' GATE YESTREEN, 
Tune — The Blue-eyed Lass, 

I GAED a wacfu' gate yestreen — 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
*Twas not her golden ringlets bright. 

Her hps like roses wet wi' dew. 
Her heaving bosom, lily white — 

It was her een sae bonuie blue. 



MY HEART IS A-BREAKING, DEAR TITTIE. 365 

Sh^ talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she ^vi^d, 

She charm'd my soul — I wist na how ; 
And aye the stound, the deadly wound, 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speaks and spare to speed, 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay me dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 



Tune — Bohie donna Gorach. 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, 

Where Cummins ance had high command ,* 
Wlien shall I see that honour'd land, 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here ? 

How lovely, Nith, thy fi'uitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom J 
How sweetl}^ wind thy sloping dales, 

Where lambkins, wanton thro' the broom , 
The' wandering, now, must be my doom. 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 
Mav there my latest hours consume, 

Amang tlie friends of early days I 



MY HEART IS A-BREAKING, DEAR TITTIB. 
Tfite — Tarn Glen, 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittle ! 

Some counsel unto me come len', 
To anger them a' is the pity, 

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen ? 

I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow 

In poortith I might make a fen'; 
What care I in riches to wallow, 

If I maunna marry Tam Glen ? 

There's Lowrie, the laird o* Drumeller, 
*' Guid day to you, brute ! " he comes ben ; 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller. 
But when will he dance like Tam Glen ? 

2 G 3 



366 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
Aud bids me beware of young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me. 
But wha can think so o' Tarn Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. 
He'll gi'e me guid hunder marks ten ; 

But, if it's ordained I maun take him. 
Oh, wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the valentine's dealing. 
My heart to my mou' gaed a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing. 
And thrice it was written — Tam Glen. 

The last Halloween I was wanking 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His likeness cam up the house stauking. 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear Tittie ! don't tarry— 
I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 

Gif ye will advise me to marry 
The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Gleu. 



THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE. 

Tune — There are few guid fellows when Willie^ s c 

By yon castle wa,* at the close of the day, 

I heard a man sing though his head it was grey ; 

And as he was singing, the tears down came — 

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars ; 

Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; 

We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame 

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword. 
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd. 
It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' old dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamii comes hame. 
Now life is a burthen that bows me down. 
Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moments my words are the same — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame ! 



Tune — 3fy Tocher's the Jewel. 

On meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty. 
And meikle thinks my love o' my kin ; 

But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie. 
My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 36T 

It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree. 

It's a' for the hinny he'll cherish the bee. 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller. 

He canna ha'e luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an arle-penny. 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy; 
But an' ye be crafty, I am cunniu', 

Sae ye wi' another your fortune maun try. 
V"e're hke to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree ; 
Ve'li slip frae me like a knotless thread. 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



HOW CAN I BE BLYTHE AND GLAD. 

Tune — The Bonnie Lad thafs far awa. 

Oh, how can I be blythe and glad — 

Or how can I gang brisk and braw. 
When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is owre the hills and far awa? 

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best. 
Is owre the hills and far awa ? 

It's no the frosty winter wind. 

It's no the driving drift and snaw; 
But aye the tear comes in my ee, 
To think on him that's far awa. 
But aye the tear comes in my ee. 
To think on him that's far awa. 

My father pat me frae his door. 

My friends they ha'e disowned me a*. 
But I ha'e ane will tak my part. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 
But I ha'e ane will tak my part. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa, 

A pair o* gloves he gae to me. 

And silken snoods he gae me twa ; 
And I will wear them for his sake. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

And I will wear them for his sake. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 



I DO CONFESS THOU AET SAE FAIR. 

I DO confess thou art sae fair, 
I wad been owre the lugs in love. 

Had I na found the Slightest prayer 
That lips can speak thy heart could move. 



363 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweeti. 

Thy favours are the silly wind, 
Tiiat kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy ; 
How sune it tines its scent and hue 

When pou'd and worn a common toy ! 
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, 

Tiio' thou may gaily bloom awhile ! 
Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside 

Like ony common weed and vile. 



lnttting Inng. 

Tune — I red you heioare at the Jiunting, 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn. 
Our lads gaed a-hunting ane day at the dawn, 
Ovvre moors and owre mosses and mony a glen. 
At length they discovered a bonuie moor hen. 

I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 

I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 

Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring. 

But cannily steal on the bonnie moor hen. 
Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells ; 
Her colours betrayed her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage out-lustred the pride o' the spring. 
And oh ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 

I red you beware, &c. 

Auld Phoebus himsel' as he peep'd o'er the hill. 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; 
He levelled his rays where she basked on the brae — 
His rays were outshone, and but marked where she lay. 
1 red you beware, &c. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; 
The best o' our lads, wi' the best o' their skill ; 
3>iit still as the fairest she sat in their si<rht. 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight. 
1 red you beware, &c. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE. 
Tune — What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man. 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 

Had luck to the penny that tempted my minuic 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller and Ian 1 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 369 

Bad luck to the penny that tempted my minnie, 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller and Ian' ! 



He's always compleenin' frae mornin* to e*enin,* 
He hoasts and he hirples the weary day lang ; 
He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 
Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 
He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 
Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, 

I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows : 
Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows. 
Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man. 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until 1 heart-break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 



Tune — Bonnie wee thing, 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Wishfully I look and languish. 
In that bonnie face o' thine ; 

M.y heart it stounds \v4' anguish, 

. Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty. 

In ane constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine I 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad \5rear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I should tine I 

24 



3?0 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

tutli] Diimrs* 

Tune — Jliss Muir. 

HOW shall I, unskilfu', try 
The poet's occupation, 

The tunetu' powers, in happy hours, 
That whispers inspiration ? 

Even they maun dare an effort mair 
Than au^ht they ever gave us, 

Or the}' rehearse, in equal verse, 
The charms o' lovely Davies. 

Each eye it cheers, when she appears, 

Like Phoehus in the morning. 
When past the shower, and evVy flowor 

The garden is adorning. 
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, 

When vrinter-bound the wave is ; 
Sae droops our heart when we mauii part 

Frae charming lovely Davies. 
Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift, 

That maks us mair than princes ; 
A scepter'd hand, a king's command, 

Is in her darting glances ; 
The man in arms, 'gainst female charms, 

Even he her wilHng slave is ; 
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign 

Of conquering lovely Davies. 

My nnise to dream of such a theme, 
^ Her feeble powers surrender ; 
The eagle's gaze alone surveys 
The sun's meridian splendour : 

1 wad in vain essay the strain. 
The deed too daring brave is ; 

I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire 
The charms o' lovely Davies. 



Oil, FOR ANE-AND-TWENTY, TAM. 

Tune— T/^e Moudiewort 

cnoEus. 

And oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tam, 
And hey, -sweet ane-and-twenty, Tarn, 

I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang 
And I saw ane-and twenty, Tarn. 

They snool me sair, and haud me down, 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! 

But three short years will soon wheel roun*, 
And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 



BESS AND HER SPINNING-WHEEL. 371 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 

Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 
At kith or kin I need nae spier, 

An' I saw ane- and- twenty, Tam. 

Tliey'll lia'e me wed a wealthy coof, 

Tho' I mysel' ha'e plenty, Tam ; 
But hear'st thou, laddie — there's my loof— . 

I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam. 



KENMUEE'S ON AND AWA. 
Tune — Kenmure's on and awa, Willie* 

Oh Kenmure's on and far aw^a, Willie ! 

Oh Kenmure's on and awa 1 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord. 

That ever Galloway saw. 

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! 

Success to Kenmure's band ; 
There's ne'ei- a heart that fears a Whig, 

That rides by Kenmure's hand. 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; 
There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude 

Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 

Oh Kenmure's lads are men, WiUie I 

Oh Kenmure's lads are men ; 
Their hearte and swords are metal true— 

And that their faes shall ken. 

They'll live or die wi' fame, WiUie ! 

They'll live or die wi' fame ; 
But soon, wi' sounding victorie. 

May Kenmure's lord come hame. 

Here's him that's far awa, Willie ! 

Here's him that's far awa ! 
And here's the flower that I love best— 

The rose that's Hkc the snaw I 



BESS AND HER SPINNING-WHEEL, 

Tune — The sweet lass that Ides me. 

Oh leeze me on my spinning-wheel, 
Oh leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Era tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me flel and warm at e'en ! 
^Cnd sit me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal— 
Oh leeze me on my spinning-wheel ! — 



372 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

On ilka hand tlie bnrnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn whitc^ 
Across the pole their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdies' nest. 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The sun bhnks kindly in the biel', 
Where biy the I turn my spinning-wheeL 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The Hut whites in the hazel braes, 
Deliglitf^d, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the clover hay, 
The paitrick whimn' o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin' round my shiel. 
Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy. 
Oh wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring, idle to^'s. 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joj^s, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Be?8ie at her spinning-wheel ? 



OH, LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. 

Tune— T7ie JPosie, 

Oh luve will venture in where it daurna well be seen ; 
Oh luve will venture in where wdsdom ance has been ; 
But I will down yon river rove, among the woods sae greca- 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear ; 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a poer- 
And a' to be a posie to my atn dear ]\Iay. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou' ; 
The hyacintn rcr constancy, wi' its unchanging blue — 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simpHcity, and unaffected air^ 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu' wi' its locks o' siller grey, 
W here, like an aged man, it stands at break of day ; 
l^ut the songster's nest within the bush I wiima tak Away— 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear ^Maj-. 



TO SIMMER, WHEN THE HAY WAS MAWN. 373 

TO SIMMER, WHEN THE HAY WAS MAWN. 
TuKB — The Country Zass, 

• Ik simmer, wlien the hay was mawn, 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea. 

And roses blaw in ilka bield; 
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel. 

Says — " I'll be wed, come o't what will." 
Out spak a dame in wrinkeld eild — 

" 0' guid advisement comes nae ill. 

It's ye ha'e wooers mony ane. 

And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken 5 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnnie 0' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his bam, fu' is his byre ^ 
Tak this frae me, my bomiie hen, 

It's plenty feeds the luver's fire." 

" For Johnnie 0' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single file ; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blythe's the blink 0' Robie's e'e, 

And, weel I wat, he lo'es me dear : 
Ane blink o' him I wadna gi'e 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear." 

**0h thoughtless lassie, life's a faught • 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair j 
But aye fou han't is fetchin best, 

Ajid hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare^ 

And wilfu' folk maun ha'e their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun driaK the rill.** 

*' Oh, gear will buy me rigs 0' land. 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye; 
But the tender heart 0' leesome luv€ 

The gowd and siller canna buy ; 
We may be poor — Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and luve brings peace and joy— 

What mair ha'e qneens upon a throne ? 



2h 



374 BURNS'S POETICAL W0RK3. 



TURN AGAIN, THOU FAIR ELIZA. 

TuEN again, thou fair Eliza, 

Aue kind blink before we part, 
Rue on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies. 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendshii^'s kind disguise ! 

Tliee, dear maid, ha'e I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou vt^reck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ane sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the hlossom, 

In the pride o' sunny noon. 
Not the little sporting fairy. 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gi'es to me. 



TvTSTE—The Eight Men ofMoidart, 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 
The spot they called it Linkum-doddies 

Willie was a wabster guid, 
Cou'd stown a clew wi' ony bodie, 

He had a wife was dour and din, 
^ Oh Tinkler Madgie was her mithcr. 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I wad na gi'e a button for her. 

She has an e'e — she has but ane, 
The cat has twa the very colour : 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 

A whiskin beard about her mou', 
^ Her nose and chin they threaten ithcr— 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gi'o a button for her. 



SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A NATION. 375 

She's bough-hougVd, she's hein-shinn'd, 

Ane limpin' leg, a hand-breed shorter* 
She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 

To balance fair in ilka quarter : 
She has a hump npon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther. 
Sic a wife as Wilhe had, 

I wad na gi'e a button for her. 

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits, 

And wi' her loof her face a-washin' 5 
But Wilhe^s wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; 
Her walie nieves like midden-creels, 

Her face wad fyle the Logan- Water, 
Sic a wife as Wilhe had, 

I wad na gi'e a button for her. 



SUCH A PAECEL OF BOGUES IN A NATION* 
Tune — Parcel of Rogues in a Nation, 

'^AREWEEL to a' our Scottish fame, 

jTT^'eweel our ancient glory, 
Farewbcl ^ven to the Scottish name, 

Sae fam'a in martial story. 
Now sark rins Kif the Solway sands, 

And Tweed rins to the ocean. 
To mark where England's province stands:—* 

Such a parcel of rogxies in a nation ! 

What force or guile could not subdue, 

Thix)' many warlike ages, 
Is wrought now by a coward few, 

For hirehng traitors' wages. 
The English steel we could disdain, 

Secure in valour's station ; 
But English gold has been our bane : — 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! 

Oh would I had not seen the day 

That treason thus could fell us, 
Mj" auld grey head had lien in clay, 

Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! 
But pith and power, till my last hour, 

I'll make this declaration ; 
We're bought and sold for EngUsh gold-* 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation 1 



37^ BUEirs'S POETICAL WORESi 

SONG OF DEATH. 

Tune — Or an and Diog. 

Scene — A field of battle. — Time of the dcay, evening-.— The 
wounded and djnng of the victorioiis ai-tny are supposed 
to join^ in the following song r— 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and yQ skies,. 

Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Parewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties— 

Our race of existence is run 1 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou- life's gloomy foe I 

Go, fi"ighten-the coward and slave ; 
Oo, teach them to tremble, fell tyi*ant ! but know,, 

^o teiTors hast thou for the brave ! 

Thon strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the dark^ 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mai'k ; 

He talis m the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in our Iianck, 

Our king and our country to save — 
Wliile victory shines on life's last ebbing sandS;, 

Oh ! who would not die with the brave I 



SHE'S FAIE AND FAUSE. 
Tune — Site's fair andfomse* 

Site's fair and fause that causes my smai^ty 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 
She's broken her voWy she's broken my lieart>. 

And I may e'en gae hang. 

A coof cam in wf routh o' gear, 
And I ha'e tint my dearest dear ; 

But woman is but warld's gear, 
Sae let the bonnie lassie gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove^ 

A woman has't by kind. 

Oh woman, lovely woman fair ! 

An angel form fa'n to thy share, 
Twad been owre meikle to gi'cn thee mair— 

I mean an angel mind. 



THE LOVELY LASS OP ITTVEENESS. 1577 

FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AETON, 

TuiTE — Tlie ydlow-Jiaircd Zaddie. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among the green braes, 
I^low gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
-Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the gleB» 
Ye wild-whistling blackbirds, in yon thoriy^' den. 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Far marked with the courses of clear winding nlls-j 
riiere daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green vallies below ; 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; 
There oft as mild evening woeps over the lea, 
Tho sweet-scented bii'k shades my Mary and me. 

"Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it ghdes, 
And «vmdsT)y the <;ot wliere my Mary resides ; 
Hov> wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy dear wslvb 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
-Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ! 
My Mary's asleep by thj^ murmurir g stream, 
^lovv gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dreanu 



THE LOVELY LASS OP INVERNESa 
Tune — Lass of Inverness, 

The lovely lass o' Liverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see : 
-For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

Anday-e the saut tear blin's her e'ei 
Drumossie moor — Drumossie day — 

A waefu' day it was to me! 
For there I lost ray father dear. 

My father dear, and brethren three. 

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay. 

Their graves are grov/ing green to seej 
And by them lies tlie dearest lad 

That over blest a woman's e'e! 
^ow wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A biuidy man I trow thou be ; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair. 

That ne'er did wrong to thme or thee, 

2hS 



aOfft BUBirs'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

A RED, RED ROSE. 

Tune — Grahams Stratlispe^. 

Oh, my luve's like a red, red rose 

That's newly sprung in June : 
Oh, my luve's like the melodie, 

That's sweetly play'd in tune. 
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I wiU luve thee still, my dear. 

Till a* the seas gang dry. 

Till ?t' the seas gang dry, my dear. 

And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 
I will luve thee stiU, my dear, 

While the sands o' life shall run. 
And fare thee weel, my only luve I 

And fare thee weel a while ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE 

Tune — LouiSy what reeJc I hy tliee, 

LoTJis, what reck I hy thee. 
Or Geordie on his ocean ? 

Dyvor, beggar louns to me — 
I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let her crown -my love her law. 
And in her breast enthrone me ; 

Kings and nations — swith, awa ! 
Reif randies, I disown ye! 



THE EXCISEMAN. 

Tune — The deil cam fiddling througTi tJie tonm^. 

The deil cam fiddling through the town, 

And danced awa wi' the Exciseman, 
And ilka wife cries—" Auld Mahoun, 
I wish you luck o' the prize man I " 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa. 

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman ; 
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa , 
He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 

We'U mak our maut, we'll brew our drink. 
We'll dance and sing, and rejoice, man ; 

And raony braw thanks to the meikle black deii 
That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 



I'll aye ca' in by yon tow:s. 'S7^ 

"^e deil's awa, the deil's avva, 

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman ■: 
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, 

He's danc'd awa wi' the ExcibTsinan. 

there's threesome reels, there's foursome ycl% 

There's horirpipes and strathspey s, man ; 
Sat the ae best dance e'er cam to the -land 
T^ as — the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman, 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa. 

The deil's aw^ wi' the Exciseman-; 
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, 
He' danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman, 



SOMEBODY. 

Tune — For the saTceo^ somelodi^. 

My heart is sair — I dare na tell— 
My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake o' somebody. 
Oh-oh, for somebody ! 
Oh-hey, for somebody ] 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake o' somebody ! 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love>>. 

Oh, sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free. 
And send me safe my somebodj-, 
Oh-oh, for somebody ! 
Oh-hey, for somebody ! 
I wad do — ^what wad I not 1 
For the sake o' somebody ! 



I'LL AYE CA' m BY YON TO\VS. 
Tune — Illgae nae mair to yon town. 

I'll ave ca' in by yon town. 

And by yon garden green, again ; 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 
There's uane sail ken, there's nane sail guess^ 

What brings me back the gate again. 
But she, my fairest faithfu' lass. 

And stowUns we sail meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken tree, 

When trystin-time draws near again ' 

And when her lovely form I see, 
Oh, haith, she's doubly dear again I 



350 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS, 

111 aye ca' in by yon town, 
And by yon garden green ag^n ; 

m aye ca' in by yon town, 
And see my bonnie Jean again. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIIS ^ 

Ai-Bi—TJie Sutor's DocUer. 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow \sTings the gentle hear>i. 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

Ey the treasure of my soul. 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie ; 

Only thou, I swear and vow. 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt nae be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me ; 
If it winna, canna be. 
Thou, for thine may choose me. 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 
Lassie, let me quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



OH, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN. 
Tj5^is,—TII gae nae mair to yon town. 

Oh, wat ye wha's in yon town. 

Ye see the e'enin' sun upon ? 
The fairest dame's in yon town, 

The e'enin' sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw. 
She wanders by yon spreading tree ; 

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e I 

How blest ye birds that round her sing. 
And welcome in the blooming year I 

And doubly welcome be the spring. 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

Tlie sun blinks blythe on yon town. 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr j 

But my delight is in yon town, 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 



COULD AUGHT OF SONG. 381 

Without my love, not a' the charms 

O' Paradise could yield me joy; 
But gi'e me Lucy in my arms. 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 

Tho' ra^ng winter rent the air ; 
And she a lovely little flower. 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 

Oh, sweet is she in ."^ on tov^n, 

Yon sinkin' sun's gane down upon 5 
A fairer than's in >'on town 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe. 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; 
I careless quit aught else below. 

But spare me, spare me, Lucy dear ! 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 

And she — as fairest is her form ! 
She has the truest, kindest heart. 



BUT LATELY SEEN. 
Tv^B—The Water of lAfe, 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 

The woods rejoiced the day ; 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowei«, 

In double pride were gay ; 
But now our joys are fled 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Sliall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild. 

Sinks in Time's wintry rage. 
Oh ! age has wearj^ days. 

And nights 0' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

W\iY comes thou not again ? 



COULD AUGHT OF SONG. 

Tune— Co«?(i auglit of Song. 

Could aught of song declare my pains^ 
Could artful numbers move thee. 

The muse should tell, in labour'd strains, 
Oh Mary, how I love thee ! 



BUII^"S3 POETICAL WORKIt. 

Thej^ wlio but feign a wounded heart 
May teach the lyre to languish ; 

But what avails the pride of art, 

When wastes the soul with anguish If 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover ; 
And in the keen, yet tender eye, 

Oh read th' imploring lover ! 
For well I know th}^ gentle mind 

Disdains art's ga}' disgiuising ; 
Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd, 

The voice of nature prizing:. 



OH, STEER HER UP. 
TuNB — Oh steer her up, and haud her c/anh 

Oh steer her up and haud her gaun — 

Her mother's at the mill, Jo ; 
And gif she winna take a man. 

E'en let her take her v/ill, Jo ; 
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, 

And ca' another gill, Jo, 
And gif she take the thing amiss, 

E'en let her flyte her fill, Jo. 

Oh steer her up, and be na blate. 

And gif she take it ill, Jo, 
Then lea'e the lassie till her fate, 

And time na longer spill, Jo : 
Ne'er break your heart for ane rebuto. 

But think upon it still, Jo ; 
Then gif the lassie winna do't, 

Ye' 11 find anither will, Jo. 



IT WAS A' FOR OUR RIGHTFU' KING. 
Tune — It was for our rlghtfiC king. 

It was a' for our rightfu' king 
We left fair Scotland's strand ; ^ 

It was a' for our rightfu' king 
We e'er saw Irish land. 

My dear : 
We e'er saw Irish land. 

Now a' is done that men can do, 

And a' is done in vain ; 
My love and native land farewell, 

For I maun cross the main. 
My dear ; 

For I maun cross the main. 



OH, WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES ME. S83 

He turned him right and round about 

Upon the Irish shore ; 
And gave his bridle-reins a shake, 

With adieu for evermore, 
My dear ; 

"With adieu for evermore. 

The sodger from the wars returns, 

The sailor frae the main ; 
But I ha'e parted frae my love, 

Never to meet again. 
My dear ; 

Never to meet again. 

When day is gane, and night is come. 

And a' folk bound to sleep ; 
I think on him that's far awa', 

The lee-lang night and weep. 
My dear ; 

The lee-lang night and weep. 



OH WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES MB 

TrNE — Mo'i*ag, 

Oh wha is she that lo'es me, 

And has my heart a-keeping ? 
Oh sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews o' simmer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping ! 
Oh that's the lassie o' my hearty 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
Oh that's the queen o' womankind. 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie, 
In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 
Erewhile thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 

If thou had&t heard her talking. 

And thy attentions phghted. 
That ilka body talking, 

But her by thee is slighted, 

And thou art all dehghted. 

If thou hast met this fair one ,* 

WTien frae her thou hast parted, 
If every other fair one, 
But her, thou hast deserted. 
And thou art broken-hearted ; 
Oh that's the lassie o' my heart. 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
Oh that's the queen o' womankind. 
And ne'er a ane to peer her 



3S1 BUENS'S POETICU:* WOKZS. 

CALEDONIA, 
Tune — Caledonian Hunt's Delight, 

There was once a day — ^but old Time then was young — 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line-, 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine ?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would. 
Her heav'nly relations there fixed her reign, 

And pledg'd her their godlieads to warrant it good, 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew ; 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, 

" Whoe'er shall provoke thee, tli' encounter shall rue '. '*' 
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, 

To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn ; 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, 

Her darling amusement the hounds and the horn. 

Long quiet she reign'd, till thitherward steers 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand ; 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 

They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land ; 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry. 

They conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ; 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly— 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell harpy raven took wing from the north, 

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth 

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore ; 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, 

No arts could appease them, no arms could repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd. 

As Largs well can witness and Loncartie tell. 

The cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose. 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife ; 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose. 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life : 
The AngUan lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood : 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, nnconquer'd, and free. 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run j 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangle-triangle the figure we'll choose, 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypotheneuse ; 

Then, ergo, she'll match them, and match them a]\va>'8. 



GLQOMT PECEMBEE, 

OH, LAY THY LOOP IN MINE, LASa 
Tune — Cordwainer's March* 

Os, lay thy loof in mine, lass. 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, lass. 
That thou wilt be my ain. 

A slave to love's unbounded sway, 
He aft has wrought me meikle wae ; 
But now he is my deadly fae, 
Unless thou be my ain. 

There's mony a lass has broke my rest. 
That for a blink I ha'e lo'ed best ; 
But thou art queen within my breast. 
For ever to remain. 

Oh, lay thy loof in mine, lass. 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy right han^, lass 
That thou wilt be my ain. 



ANNA, THY CHARMS. 
Tune — Bonnie Mary, 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire. 

And waste my soul with care ; 
But, ah ! how bootless to admire. 

When fated to despair ! 
Yet in thy presence, lovely fair. 

To hope may be forgiven ; 
For sure 'twere impious to despair^ 

So much in sight of Heav'n. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 
Tune — Wandering Willie. 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December I 
Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care; 

Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 
Parting wi* Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 

Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, 
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; 

But the dire feeling, oh farewell for ever, 
Is anguish unmingFd and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest. 
Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown ; 

Bach is the tempest has shaken my bosom. 
Since my last hope and last comfort is gone. 

25 2 1 



386 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomj^ December, 
Still shall I hail thee \vi' sorrow and care ; 

For sad. was the parting thou makes me remember. 
Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair I 



OH MALLY'S IMEEK, MALLY'S SWEET. 

On, Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mally's modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 

Mally's every way complete. 

As I was walking up the street, 
A barest maid I chanc'd to meet ; 

But, oh, the road was very hard 
For that fair maiden's tender feet. 

It were mair meet that those fine feet 
Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon, 

And 'twere more fit that she should sit 
Within your chariot gilt aboon. 

Her yellow hair, beyond compare, 
Comes trinkhng down her swan-white necfc 

And her two eyes like stars in skies, 
Wad keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 



CASSILLIS' BANKS. 

Now bank and brae are claith'd in green. 

And scatter'd cowslips sweetly spnng, 
By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To CassilHs' banks, when e'ening fa's, 

There wi' my Mary let me flee, 
There catch her ilka glance of love. 

The bonnie bhnk o' Mary's e'e ! 

The child wha boasts o' warld's wealth 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain — 

Ah ! fortune canna gi'e mc mair. 
Then let me range by Cassillis' bank% 

Wi' her, the lassie dear to me. 
And catch her ilka glance of love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e I 



THE FETE CHAMPETEE. 387 

MY LADY'S GOWN, THERE'S GAIRS UPON'T. 

Tune — Gregg's Fijpes. 

My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't. 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet. 
My lord thinks mickle mair upon't. 

My lord a-hunting he is gane. 

But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane j 

By Colin's cottage lies his game. 

If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 

My lady's white, my lady's red, 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' bluid ; 
But her ten-pun lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 

Out owre yon muir, out owre yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass, 
There wOns auld Colin's bonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

Sae sweetly move her gentle limbs, 
Like music notes o' lovers' hjinns ; 
The diamond dew is her een sa« blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swima. 

My lady's dink, my lady's drest, 
The flower and fancy o' the west ; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
Oh, that's the !ass to make him blest. 



THE FETE CHAMPETRE. 
Tune — KilUcrankie, 

Oh wha wiU to St. Stephen's house, 

To do our errands there, man ? 
Oh wha will to St. Stephen's house, 

O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man ? 
Or will we send a man o' law ? 

Or will we send a sodger ? 
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a' 

The meikle Ursa-Major ? 

Come, we will court a noble lord, 

Or buy a score o' lairds, man ? 
For worth and honour pawn their word, 

Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man ? 
Ane gi'es them coin, ane gi'es them wine, 

Anith'fer gi'es them clatter ; 
Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste, 

He gi'es a Fete ChampetrCi 



388 BUENS'S POETICAL TTOUKS. 

When Love and Beauty heard the nc^ys, 

The gay green woods amang, man ; 
VtHiere, g'ath'ring flow'rs and busking bow'rg , 

They heard the blackbird's sang, man: 
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss, 

Sir Pohtics to fetter, 
As theirs alone, the patent bhss, 

To hold a Fete Champetre. 

Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing, 

Owre hill and dale she Hew, man ; 
Ilk wimphng burn, ilk crystal spring, 

Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man : 
She suramon'd every social sprite. 

That sports by wood or w^ater. 
On th' bonnie banks of Ayr to meet. 

And keep this Fete Champetre. 

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew, 

Were bound to stakes like kj^e, man ; 
And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu', 

Clamb up the starry sky, man : 
Reflected beams dwell in the streams, 

Or down the current shatter ; 
Tlie western breeze steals through the trees 

To view this Fete Champetre. 

How many a robe sae gaily floats, 

What sparkHng jewels glance, man ; 
To Harmony's enchanting notes, 

As moves the mazy dance, man. 
The echoing wood, the winding flood. 

Like Paradise did glitter, 
Wlien angels met, at Adam's j^ett. 

To hold their Fete Champetra. 

When Politics came there to mix 
] And make his ether-stane, man ; 

He circl'd round the magic ground, 

But entrance found he nane, man : 
He blushed for shame, he quat his name, 

Foreswore it, every letter, 
Wi' humble prayer to join and share 

This festive Fete Champetre. 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 
Tfne — !PusJi ahout the Jorum. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware. Sir ; 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore. Sir. 



OH, ^VERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. 389 

The Nitli shall rim to Corsicon, 

And CrifFel sink in Solway, 
'£re we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 
Fal de ral, &c. 

Oh, let us not Hke snarling tykes, 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till, slap, come in an unco loon. 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Among oursels united ; 
For never, but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted. 
Fal de ral, &c. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a claut may fail in't ; 
But deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our father's bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By Heaven, the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 

Fal de ral, &c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-bom brothei. 
Who would set the moh aboon the throne. 

May they be damn'd together ! 
Who will not sing " God save the King,'* 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing, " God save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 
Fal de ral, &c. 



OH, WERT THOU EST THE CAULD BLAST. 
Tune — Lass o' Livisto?ie, 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee ; 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 

The desert were a Paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 

Or were I monarch o' the globe, 
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 

The brightest jewel in my crown. 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 2 I 3 , 



890 



BUENS S POETICAL WOEKS. 

LOVELY POLLY STEWART. 

Tune — YeWe welcome^ Charlie Stewart, 

On, lovely Polly Stewart ! 

Oh, charming Polly Stewart ! 
There's not a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so fair as thou art. 
The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's, 

And art can ne'er renew it ; 
But worth and truth eternal youth 

Will give to Polly Stewart. 

May he whose arms shall fauld thy charms 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the Heaven 

He grasps in Polly Stewart. 
Oh lovely Polly Stewart! 

Oh charming Polly Stewart ! 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so sweet as thou art. 



YESTREEN I HAD A PINT OP WINS. 

Tune — The Banks of Banna, 

Yesteeen I had a pint of wine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The golden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to my hinny bliss 

Upon the Ups of Anna. 

Ye monarchs tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savannah, 
Gi'e me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise impenal charms, 

An empress or sultana, 
While d^'ing raptures in her arms 

I give and take my Anna. 

Awa, thou flaunting god of day I 

Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray. 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night ! 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a', 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna. 



BONNIE LESLIE. 391 

THE LEA RIG. 

Tune — The Tiea ^ig. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin time is near, my jo; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field. 

Return sae dowf and weary O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

With dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie O, 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae weary 0, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie 0. 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, vay jo ; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen. 

Along the burn to steal, my jo. 
Gi'e me the hour of gloamin grey, 

It maks my heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on ^he lea-rig, 

My aind kind dearie 0. 



Tune — The Collier's Bonnie Lassi$» 

Oh, saw ye bonnie Lesley, 
As she gaed owre the border ? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 
To spread her conquests further. 

To see her is to love her. 

And love but her for ever ; 
For Nature made her what she is, 

And never made anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects, we, before thee; 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The dell he could na scaith thee. 

Or aught that wad belang thee ; 
He'd look into thy bonnie face, 

And say, " I canna wrang thee." 



392 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

The powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha' na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Leslej^, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag we ha'e a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



^VILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY P 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

And leave old Scotia's shore ? 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

Across the Atlantic's roar ? 

Oh, sweet grow the lime and the orange, 

And the apple on the pine : 
But a' the charms o' the Indies 

Can never equal thine. 

I ha'e sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I ha'e sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow. 

Oh, plight me your faith, my !Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 

Oh, plight me your faith, my Mar}-, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We ha'e plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join ; 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour and the moment o' time ! 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING 

SnE is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer ; 

And neist my heart I'll wear her, 

For fear ray jewel tine. 

Oh leeze me on, my wee thing. 
My bonnie, bl3'thesorae, wee thing ; 
Sae lang*s I hae mj'' wee tiling, 
I'll think my lot divine. 



AXJLD EOB MOEEIS. 

Tho' warld's care we share o't, 
And may see meikle mair o't ; 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it. 
And ne'er a word repine. 



iigljlattii 3llarq. 

Tune — Katharine Ogie, 

Ye banks and braes, and streams aromid 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

0* my sweet Highland Marj^ 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to jne as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace. 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh, fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mary! 

Oh pale, pale now those rosy lips, 

I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly ; 
And clos'd for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ; 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



%n\\ Unti 3finrns. 

Thbhe's auld Rob Morris, that wons in yon glen, 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale o' auld men | 
He has goud in his coffei*s, he has owsen and kine 
And ane bonnie lassie, his d arling and niine. 



301 EUHNS'S POETICAL TTORKS. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the ev'ning aniang the new hay ; 
As blythe and as artless as the himljs on the lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light of my e'e. 

But, oh, she's an heiress, auld Kohin's a laird. 

And my daddie has nouglit but a cot-house and yard ; 

A wooer like me mannna hope to come speed, 

The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; 

The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; 

I wander my lane, Hke a night -troubled ghaist. 

And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. 

Oh had she but been of a lower degree, 
I then might ha'e hop'd she wad smile upon me I 
Oh, how past describing had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 



Human &m]. 

Duncan Gray came here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
On blythe Yule night when we wxn*e fu' 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd j 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleert and blin', 
Spake o' lowpiu' owre a linn ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
For a haughty hizzie die ? 
She may gae to — to France for me I 

Ha, ha, &c. 

How it come let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, 8zc. 
Meg gr.!w sick— as he grew heal, 

lia, ha, &c. 



POOETITH CAULD. 396 

Something in her bosom ^vTings, 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
And oh, her een, they speak sic things 
Ha, ha, &c. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan could na be her death. 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baithj 

Ha, ha, &c. 



|nnrtit^ CheIL 

Tune — I had a JELorse, 

Oh, poortith cauld, and restless love. 

Ye wreck my peace between ye; 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive. 

An 'twere na for my Jeanie. 
Oh why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life*s dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 

Depend on Fortune's shining ? 

This warld's wealth when I think on. 
Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 

Fie, fie on siUy coward man, 
That he should be the slave o't. 
Oh why, &c. 

Her een sae bonnie blue betray 
How she repays my passion ; 

But prudence is her o'erword aye. 
She talks of rank and fashion. 
Oh why, &c. 

Oh wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
Oh wha can prudence think upon. 

And sae in love as I am ? 
Oh why, &c. 

How blest the humble cotter's fatel 
He wooes his simple dearie ; 

The silly bogles, wealth and states 
Can never make them eerie. 
Oh why, &c. 



396 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Ms. W&tiL 

There's bra^v, braw lads on Yarrow braes. 
That wander thro' the blooming heather; 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Gala Water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 

And I'll be his and he'll be mine. 
The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. 

Altlio' his daddie was nae laird. 
And tho I hae nae meikle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindness, truest love, 
We'll tent our flocks by Gala water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; 

The bands and bhss o' mutual love. 
Oh, that's the chiefest wai'ld's treasure ! 



f nri tegnni. 



Oh mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, 

And loud the tempests roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower, 

Lord Gregory ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha'. 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some 2>iti/ on me shaw, 

K love it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thon not the grove 

By bonnie Irvvine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love 

I lang, lang had denied ? 

How aften did thou pledge and vow 

Thou wad for aye be mine ; 
And my fond heart, itsel' sae true, 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of Heaven that flashest by, 

Oh wilt thou give me rest ? 

Ye mustering thunders fiom above 

Your willing victim see ; 
But spare and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to Heaven and me. 



"WANDERING WILLIE. 397 

Tune — Bide ye yet. 

Off Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor \ 
How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun. 
Could I the rich reward secure. 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string. 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw. 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd, and said, amang them a' 

" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

Oh Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

WhLse only faut is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie. 

At least be pity to me shown j 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



H'Mtormg ^illit 



Heee awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie. 

Tell me thou bring'st me my Wilhe the same. 

Winter-winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e ; 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Wilhe, 
The simmer to nature, my Wilhe to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumber, 
How your di'ead howhnk a lover alarms ! 

Wauken, ye breezes ! row gently, ye billows ! 
And waft my dear laddie ance more to my arms ! 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main I 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Wilhe's my ain ! 

2k 



898 BUENS'S POETICiJi WOEKfl. 

AiE — The mill, mill O. 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawa 

And gentle peace retTirning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a widow mourning : 
I left the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger. 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth 

A poor but honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wu' plunder : 
And for fair Scotia, hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy ; 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen 

Where early Hfe I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but mj^ ain dear maid 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turned me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling, 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 
Sweet as yon haui;horn's blossom, 

Oh ! happy, happy may he be, 
That's dearest to thy bosom ! 

My purse is light, I've far to gang, 
And fain would be thj^ lodger; 

I've served my king and country lang— 
, Take pity on a sodger." 

Sae wistfuUy she gaz'd on me, 

And lovlier was than ever ; 
Quo' she, " A sodger ance I lo'ed. 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our bumble cot and hamely fare 

Ye freely may partake o't ; 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't; 

She gaz'd — she redden'd hke a rose- 
Syne pale like ony lily ; 

She sank within my arms, and cried, 
" Art thou my ain dear Willie ? " 





BLYTHE IIAE I BEEN ON YON HILL. 499 




** By Him who made yon sun and skjj 
By whom true love's regarded, 

I am the man ; and thus may still 
True lovers be rewarded. 


• 


The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame. 

And find thee still true-hearted ! 
rho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'll ne'er he parted." 
Quo' she, " My grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'i-t welcome to it dearly." 




.For gold the merchant ploughs the msiiiit 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize. 

The sodger's wealth is honour. 
The brave poor sodger ne'er -despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger : 
Eemember he's his country's stay 

In day and hour of danger. 




181i}t|B Kb 3 \mn m pn p. 




TuKE — lAggerum Cos7u 




Bltthe ha'e I been on yen hill, 

As the lambs before me ; ; 
€areless ilka thought and free. 

As the breeze flew o'er me : ' 
Now nae longer sport and play, { 

Mirth or sang can please me 5 
iicsley is sae fair and coy. 

Care and anguish seize me. 




Heavy, heavy is the tast. 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht glow'r. 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws C 

In my bosom sweUing, ; 
Underneath the grass-green scx^ 

Soon maun be my dwelling ' 




f ngHE %im. 




TlvTSi^— Logan Water. 




Oh Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
That day I was my WiUie's bride ; 
And years sinsyne ha'e o'er us run, 
3jike Logan to the simmer suu, 

\ 




\ 



itOO BUEIfSB POETICAL WOUKS. 

But now thy flow'iy banks appear 
Like drumlie ^vinter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his fpoeSy 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May 
Has made our hills and vallies gay ; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 
The bees hum round the breathing flowerat 
Eljiihe morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And evening's tears are teai*s of joy : 
My soul, delightless, a' surveys. 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush^ 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his songs her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate ta help, nae mate to cheer. 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days^. 
While WilHe's far frae Logan braes. 

Oh, wae upon you, men o' state. 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye make many a fond heart mourn^ 
8ae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tear, the orphan's cry ? 
But soon may peace bring happy days. 
And Wilhe hame to Logan braes. 



^jr, gin mi{ fnire mm \\m rri Eb5K> 

AiK — Hugie GraJiam, 

Gh, gin my love were yon red rose 
That grows upon the castle wa' ; 

And I mysel' a drap o' dew. 
Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

Oh there beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night ! 

Seald on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 
T^ll fley'd awa by Phoebus' light. 

Oh, were my love yon lilac fair, 
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring. 

And I, a bird to shelter there, 

Wlien wearied on my little wing — 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 
When youthfu' M.Ty its bloom renew'dr 



BOirNrE JEAN. 401 

BONNIE JEAN. 

Teeee was a lass, and she was fair, 

At kirk and market to be seen ; 
When a' the fairest maids were met, 

The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's warkg 

And aye she sang sae merrilie : 
The blythest bird upon the bush 

Had ne'er a hghter heart than she. 

\But hawks will rob the tender joys 

That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 
And frost will blight the fairest flowers j 

And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 

The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye 

And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi* Jeanie to the tryste, 

He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; 
.And lang 'ere witless Jeanie wist. 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown, 

-As in the besom o' the stream 

The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en; 
^0 trembling, pure, was tender love 

Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie's warkj 

And aye she sighs wi' care and pain; 
Yet wist na v^hat her ail might be. 

Or what wad mak her weel again. 

;But did na Jenny's heart loup light, 

And did na joy bliuk in her e'e, 
As Robie tould a tale of love 

Ae e'cning on the lily lea ? 

"The sun was sinking in the west, 

The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; 
^His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 

And whisper'd thus his tale of love— 

'" Oh, Jeany fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

Oh, canst thou think to fancy me ? 
^Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot. 

And learn to tent the farms wi' mef 

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 

Or naething else to trouble thee ; 
But stray amang the heather-belLs, 

And tent the v/aving corn wi' me." 

'26 2kS 



^2 BURNS*^S POETICAL WORK^. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had na will to say him na ; 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent^ 

And love was aye between them twa. 



ITEG 0' THE IVriLL. 

Ant— O^, honnie lass will you lie in a Barrack f 

Oh, ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
And ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley miller. 

The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy j 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady ; 
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; — 
She's left the guidfellow and ta'en the churl. 

The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving-; 
The laird did address her wi' matter more moving^ 
A fine pacing horse, with a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle; 

Oh wae on the siller it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen I 
A tocher's na word in a true lover's parle. 
But gi'e me my love, and a fig for the warl' \ 



OPEN THE DOOE TO ME, OH! 

On, open the door, some pity to show. 

Oh, open the door to me, oh ! 
Though thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true^, 

Oh, open the door to me, oh ! 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 

But caulder thy love for me, oh ; 
The frost that freezes the life at my heart. 

Is nought to my pains fi:ae thee, oh ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave. 

And time is setting with me, oh ; 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouJ)le them, nor thee, oh ! ** 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wfdc, 
She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! 

* My true love ! " she cried, and sank down by his sidj^ 
Never to rise again, oh I 



ADOWN WIITDINO KITH 1 DID WAl^fDES. 

Tune — Bonnie Dundee, 

TsTJE-hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow., 

And fair are the maids on the banks of the Ayr, 
-But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river. 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over, 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Orace, beauty, and elegaiice fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

Oh, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy morning. 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
'But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
iLove sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring, 

Enthron'd in her een he dehvers his law ; 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger 

Her modest d€meanoui*'s the jewel of a*. 



.4D0WN WINDING NITH I DID WANDER. 
Tune — TJie Mocking of Geordie's Byre. 

Adown winding Nith I did wander. 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spriiigj 

Adown winding Nith I did wander. 
Of PhiUis to muse and to sing. 



Awa wi' your belles and your beautie.'v, 
They never wi' her can compare ; 

Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 
Has met wf the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, 
So artless, so simple, so wild ; 

Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 
For she is simpHcity's child. 

The rosebud's the blush o' my charmer. 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest^ 

How fair and how pure is the lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour. 
They ne'er with my PhiUis can vie ; 

Her breath is the breath of the woodbiaa 
It's dew-drop o' diamond her eye. 



40A BURNS'S POETICAL \70RK3. 

Her voice is the song of the raornmg. 
That wakes thro* the green-spreading grove, 

Wlien Phoebus peeps over the mountains^ 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 

But beauty, how frail and how fleeting^ 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 

While worth in the mind of my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 



HAD I A CAVE. 

Tjjke — Hohin Adair. 

Hai> I a cave on some wild distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar; 

There would I weep my woes. 

There seek my lost repose, 

Till grief my eyes should close. 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind ! canst thou declare, 
All thy fond plighted vows, fleeting as air t 

To thy new lover hie. 

Laugh o'er thy perjury j 

Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is there I 



PHILLIS THE FAIR, 
Tune — Bohin Adair, 

While larks with the wing 

Fann'd the pure air. 
Tasting the breathing spring. 

Forth I did fare; 
Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song 

Glad did I share; 
While yon wild flowers among 

Chance led me there ; 
Sweet to the opening day 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray z 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 



COME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MY BREAST. 406 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were; 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make his destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 

PhiUis the fair. 



BY ALLAN STREAM I CHANC'D TO ROVE. 
Tune — Allan Water, 

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove. 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi ; 
The winds were whisp'ring thro' the grove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen'd to a lover's sang, 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony, 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang — 

Oh, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 

Oh, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She sinking, said, " I'm thine for ever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest, 

The sacred vow we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow ! 
How cheery thro' her shortening day. 

Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasm*e ? 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 



COME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MY BREAST. 

A IB, — Cauld Kail. 

Come, let me take thee to my breast. 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur : 
And do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her ? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 



40S BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, 

I'll clasp my countless treasure : 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever \ 
And on thj'' lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never ! 



Vi HISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 

Tune — Whistle and Til come to you, my lad. 

Oh, whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, 
Oh, whistle and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mither, and a' should go mad, 
Oh, whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent when ye come to court me, 
And come na, unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see. 
And come as ye were na comin' to me. 
And come, &c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me. 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd nao a flie , 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were na looking at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee 
But court nae auither, tho' joking ye be. 
For fear that she wile your fancy frac me. 
For fear, &c. 



Tune — Dainty Davie, 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay green-spreading bowers ; 
And now come in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

cnoEUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe. 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 

There I'll spend the day wi' you. 
My ain dear dainty DaVie. 



bstjce's addbess. 407 



The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A- wandering wi' my Davf ?, 

When purple morning starts the hare. 
To steal upon the early fare, 
Then thro' the dews I will repair, 

To meet my faithfu' Davie. 
When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws of nature's rest^ 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best, 

And that's my ain dear Davie. 



BRUCE'S ADDEESS. 
Tune— Sey TuUie Taittie. 

Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften iea, 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victorie i 

Now's the day, and now's the hour, 
See the front of battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's pow'r. 
Chains and slavery ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fiU a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and la\r 
Freedom's sword will strongly d/aw. 
Freemen stand, or freemen fa'. 
Let him follow me I 

By oppression's woes and pains, 
By your sons in servile chains. 
We will drain our dearest veins. 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low! 
TjTants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow !— 
Let us do, or die ! 

BEHOLD THE HOUR 
Tune— Or«^ Gaoil. 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart! 
Sever'd from thee, can I survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part. 



408 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

I'll often greet this surging swell. 

Yon distant isle will often hail ; 

" E'en here I took my last farewell ; 

There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail.** 

Along the solitary shore, 

Wliile Siting sea-fowl round me cry. 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye ; 
Happy thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be S 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray. 

Oh, tell me, does she muse on me ? 



Slnlil ITnng Ipf. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
And never brought to mind ? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
And days o' lang syne ? 



For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet. 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa ha'e run about the braes. 

And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered mony a weary foot^ 

Sin auld lang syne. 

We twa ha'e paicU't i' the bum, 

Frae mornin* sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid ha'e roared. 

Sin auld lang syne. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere. 

And gi'es a hand o' thine; 
And we'll take a right guid willie-waught» 

For auld lang syne. 

And surely ye'll be your pint stoup. 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 



DELUPED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE. 409 

WHERE AEE THE JOYS? 
Tune — Saiv ye my Father? 

Where are the joys I have met in the moming^, 

That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 
Where is the peace that awaited my wand'riDg, 

At evening the wild woods among ? 

No more a-winding the course of yon river. 

And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 
Ko more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure. 

But sorrow and sad-sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our vallies, 

And grim surly winter is near ? 
Ko, no I the bees humming round the gay roses^ 

Proclaim it the pride o' the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 

Yet long, long too well have I known, 
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom. 

Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 
Gome then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish. 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER. 

Tune — Fee him, Father. 

Tnau hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me ever 5 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me e\'er; 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death only should us sever, 
Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — I maun see thee never, Jamw^ 
I'll see thee never. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me foreaken ; 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me forsaken -, 
Thou canst love anither jo, while my heart is breaking : 
Soon my weary een I'll close— never mair to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE. 
Tune — The Collier^ s Bcnmie Lassie, 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The tickle fair can give thee, 

Is but a fairy treasure — 
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee* 
21. 



410 BUR^^3'S POETICAL WORKS. 

The billows on the ocean, 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The clouds' uncertain motion, 
They are but types of woman. 

Oh ! art thou not ashamed 
To doat upon a featm*e ? 

If man thou would'st be named, 
Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow ! 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 



THINE AIVI I, MY FAITHFUL FAIR 
Tune — lAggeram Cosh (the Quaker's Wift^ 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy : 
Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 

Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 
There to throb and languish : 

Tho' despair had wrung its core, 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away those rosy lips. 

Rich with balmy treasure > 
Tunn awav thine eyes of love. 

Lest I die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Love's the cloudless summer sun, 

Nature gay adorning. 



MY SPOUSE, NANCY, 
Tune— ilfy Jo Janet 

** Husband, husband, cease j^onr strife. 

No longer idly rave. Sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife. 
Yet I'm not your slave, Sir. 

One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Is it man, or woman, sajr, 

My spouse, Nancy P 



THE BANKS OP CREB. 411 

** If 'tis Still the lordly word. 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sovereign lord, 

And so good-bye allegiance I ** 

*' Sad will T be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy, 
Yet I'll try to make a shift. 

My spouse, Nancy." 

" My poor heart then break it must. 

My last hour I'm near it : 
When you lay me in the dust. 

Think, think how you will bear it * 

•* I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given. 

My spouse, Nancy." 

" Well, Sir, from the silent dead. 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you.** 

"I'll wed another like my dear, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear. 

My spouse, Nancy." 



THE BANKS OF CREK 

Tune — The Banks of Cree. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower. 
All underneath the birchin shade '^ 

The village-bell has toll 'd the hour. 
Oh, what can stay my lovely maid ? 

TTis not Maria's whispering call , 
'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, 

Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall. 
The dewy stars of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! — 

So calls the woodlark in the grove. 

His little faithful mate to cheer ! 
At once 'tis music and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ? — and art thou true? 

Oh, welcome dear to love and me. 
And let us all our vows renew, 

Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



412 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS, 

ON THE SEAS AND FAIl AWAY, 

Tune— O'^ the mils, ^c. 

How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad ? 
How can I tlie thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still ray heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with liim that's far awa. 



On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are a/e with him that's far away 

When in summer's noon I faint, 
As weary flocks around me pant, 
Haply in the scorching sun 
My sailor's thund'ring at his gun 
Bullets spare my only joy ! 
Bullets spare my darhng boy ! 
Fate do with me what you may 
Spare but him that's far away ! 

At the starless midnight hour, 
When winter rules with boundless powo» 
As the storms the forest tear, 
And thunders rend the howling air, 
Listening to the doubhng roar. 
Surging on the rocky shore. 
All I can — I weep and pra}^, 
For his weal that's far away. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet. 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may Heaven with prosperous galea 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails. 
To my arms their charge convey, 
My dear lad that's far away. 



Ca' \\}i <^mn ta \\}i %mm%< 



Ca' the yowea to the knowes, 
Ca' them where the heather grows 
Ca' them where the burnie rows. 
My bonnie dearie. 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'eS ME BEST OF A* 413 

Hark ! the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang; 
Then a-faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide. 
O'er the waves tliat sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers. 
Where at moonshine, midnight hours. 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Faries dance sae cheerie. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and Heaven sae dear. 
Nocht of ill may come thee near. 
My bonnie dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art. 
Thou hast stown my verry heart ; 
I can die but canna part. 
My bonnie dearie. 

While waters wimple to the sea ; 
While day blinks in the lifts sae hie ; 
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e 
Ye shall be my dearie ! 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A\ 
Tune — OnalCs Lock. 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching, 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling, sae, wihng. 

Would make a wretch forget his woe : 
What pleasure, what treasure. 

Unto these rosy lips to grow : 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face. 

When first her bonnie face I saw. 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 

She says she lo'es me best of a*. 

like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy. 
Betraying fair proportion. 

Wad make a saint forget the sky. 

2l3 



414 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Sae warming, sae charming. 

Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
Ilk feature — auld nature 

Declared that she could do nae mair. 
Hers are the willing chains o* love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo*es me best of a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gi'e me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve and rising moon : 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falhng, recalling. 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang : 
There dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimphng burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a* J 



SAW YE MY PHILLY ? 
Ttjtte — WTien she cam hen she hohhit. 

Oh, saw ye my dear, my Philly ? 
Oh, saw ye my dear, my PhiUy ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love, 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my Philly ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Philly ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee her Willy. 

Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly ! 
Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly ! 
As light as the air, and fause as tliou's fair 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



HOW LONG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT ? 
TuiTE — Cauld kail in Aberdeen, 

How long and dreary is the night 

When I am frae my dearie ? 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 

Tho' I we're ne'er sae weary. 



SLBEP'ST THOF, OR WAk'sT THOU. 415 

CHORUS. 

For oil ! lier lanely nights are fang-, 

And oil ! her dreams are eerie, 
And oh ! her widow'd heart is sair, 

That's absent frae her dearie. 

Wlien I think on the lightsome daj^s, 

I spent vvi' thee, my deerie, 
And now what seas between us roar, 

How can I be but eerie ? 
For oh! &c. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ! 

The joyless day, how dreary ! 
It was na sae ye glinted by, 

When I was wi' my dearie. 
For oh ! &c. 



LET NOT WOIVIAN E'ER COMPLAIN. 

Tune — Duncan Gray, 

Let not woman e'er complain 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain 

Fickle man is apt to rove. 

Look abroad through Nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man should then a monster prove ? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow, 
Sun and moon but set to rise. 

Round and round the seasons go. 

Why then ask of silly man 
To oppose great Nature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can — 
You can be no more, you know. 



SLEEP'ST T^HOU, OR WAK'ST THOUP 

Tune — Heil tah the Wars. 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature ? 
Rosy morn now lifts his eye. 
Numbering ilka bud which nature 
Waters with the tears of joy : 
Now thro' the leafy woods, 
And b}^ the reeking floods 



416 . BCEIS^S'S POETICAL ^OEKS. 

Wild Nature's tenants, freely, ^Indly str',i.y : 
The lintwhite in his bovver 
Chants o'er the hreathing flower. 
The lav'rock to the sky 
Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
Wliile the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 

Phoebus gildinp: the brow o' morning, 

Banishes ilk darksome shade. 
Nature gladd'uing and adorning ; 

Sueh to me, my lovely maid. 

When absent from my fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky ; 

But when in beauty's light. 

She meets my ravish'd sight. 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart, 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy- 



MY CIILORIS, MARK HOW GREEN THE GROVEa 
TiJNE — My Zioclging is on the cold ground. 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 

The primrose banks how fair; 
The balmy gales awake the flowers 

And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings ; 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skillfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha'. 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blythe in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn, 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 

The shepherd in the flowery glen. 

In shepherd's phrase will woo ; 
The courtier tells a flner tale. 

But is his heart as true ? 

These wild- wood flowers I've pu'd to deck 
That spotless breast o' thine : 

The courtier's gems may witness love- 
But 'tis na love like mine. 



PAKEWELL THOU STREAM THAT GENTLY PLOWS. 417 

IT WAS THE CHARMING MONTH OF iSIAY. 

Tune — Dainty Davie, 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, 
One morning, hy the break of day, 

The youthful, charming Chloe, — 
From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose. 
And o'er the fiow'ry mead she goes,— 

The youthful, charming Chloe. 

CHOEUS. 

Lovely was she by the dawn. 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe ; 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 

The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The featlier'd people, you might see, 
Perch'd all around on every tree. 
In notes of sweetest melody. 

They hail the charming Chloe ; 
Till, painting gay the eastern skies. 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Outrivall'd by the radiant eyes 

Of youthful, chai-ming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, &c. 



FAREWELL, THOU STREAM THAT WINDING 

FLOWS. 

Tune — Nancy s to the Greenwood gane, 

Fabewell, thou stream, that winding flows 

Around Ehza's dwelling ; 
Oh, mem'ry spare the cruel throes 

Within my bosom sweUing : 
Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, 

And yet in secret languish, 
To feel a fire in every vein. 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wTetch, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my griefs would cover ; 
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groaOe 

Betray the hapless lover. 
I know thou doom'st me to despair 

Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me; 
But, oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, 

For pity's sake forgive me I 
27 



418 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

The music of thy voice I heard, 

Nor wist wliile it enslav 'd me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

Till fears no more had sav'd me. 
The unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling toiTent viewing, 
*Midst circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



LASSIE WI* THE LINTWIIITE LOCKSL 
Tune — BotJiiemurche's Rant. 



Lassie with the lintwhite locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 

Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou be my dearie O ? 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
Oh, wilt thou share its joy wi' me, 
And say thou'lt be my dearie ? 

Lassie wi' the lintwhite locks., &c. 

And when the welcome simmer-shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie O. 

Lassie wi' the lintwhite locks, Sec. 

Vyiien Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray. 
The weary shearer's hameward way. 
Thro' yellow waving flelds we'll stray. 
And talk of love, my dearie 0. 

Lassie wi' the lintwhite locks, &c 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest, 
Enclasped to my faithful breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O. 

Lassie with the lintwhite locks, &c 



Tune— r/ie Sow's Tail, 



Oh, Philly, happy be the day 
Wlien roving thro' the gather*d hay. 
My youthfu' heart was stown away, 
And by thy charms, my Philly, 



PHILL1 AISD WILLY. 419 



Oh Willy, aj'e I bless the grove 
Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
Whilst thou didst pledge the pow'rs above 
To be my ain dear Willy. 

WILLY. 

As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day more sweet to hear, 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly, 

PHILLY. 

As on the briar the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows, 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my WiUy. 

WILLY. 

The milder sun and bluer sky 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 
Were ne'er sae welcome in my eye 
As is a sight o' Philly. 

PHILLY. 

The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flow'ry spiing. 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willy. 

WILLY. 

The bee that through the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower. 
Compar'd wi' my dehght is poor, 
Upon the lips o* Philly. 

PHILLY. 

The woodbine in the dewy weet. 
When evening shades in silence meet, 
Is tocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 

WILLY. 

Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 
And fools may tine, and knaves may win 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly, 



Wliat's a' the joys that gowd can gi*e? 
I care na wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I love's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain dear Willie. 



420 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

Cnirttnbir mi' tMt. 

Tune — Ltimps o' Pudding. 

Contented \v\ little, and cantie wi' mair, 
Whene'er I for^rather wi' sorrow and care, 
I ofi'e them a skelp as they're creepin' alang, 
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang. 

I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesonne thought ; 

But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : 

My mirth and good-humour are coin in my pouch, 

And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare toucK 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be rny fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
Wlien at the blythe end of our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way ; 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae ; 
Come ease, or come travail — come pleasure or pain, 
My warst ward is — " Welcome, and welcome again ! 



tost lliiiE Inn mi Itiirs, mij latii ? 

Tune— i2oys Wife. 

CHORUS. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Well thou know'st my aching heart, 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard, 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy ? 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart o' thine, my Katy ! 

Thou mayst find those will love thee dear 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 



^ni b! tfjxit HHi b! tljat. 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a* that, 
The coward slave we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that. 
For a^ that, and a' that, 

Our toil's obscure, and a' that. 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the goud for a' that. 



MY Nannie's awa. 431 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin grey, and a' that ; 
Gi'e fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor. 

Is king 0' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon hirkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that j 
Tho* hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that. 

His riband, star, and a' that. 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight> 

A marquis, duke, and a' that. 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith, he maunna fa' that. 
For a' that and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith 0' sense, and pride o' worth. 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray, that come it may. 

As come it will for a' that. 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth 

May bear the gree, and a' that: 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er. 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



Tune — There'll never be peace, ^c. 

Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, 
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; 
But to me it's dehghtless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn. 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the mom ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie— and Nannie's awa. 
Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews o' the la wo, 
The shepherd to warn 0' the grey-breaking dawn. 
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa' 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

2m 



422 BUENS'S POETICAL -WOEZS. 

Come autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, 
And soothe me vvi' tidings o' nature's decay ; 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 



toigirlinrE Wmt 

Tune — Craigiehum Wood, 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigiehum, 
And blythe awakes the morrow ; 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can jdeld me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 
I hear the wild birds singing ; 

But what a weary wight can please, 
And care his bosom vrringing ? 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 

Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart. 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, 

Around my grave they'll wither. 



OH LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET \ 

Tune — Let me in tJiis ane Night, 

Oh lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou wakin', I would w4t ? 
For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHOEUS, 

Oh let me in this ane night. 

This ane, ane, ane night ; 
For pity's sake this ane night. 

Oh rise and let me in, Jo ! 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nee star bhnks thro' the driving sleet ', 

Tak pity on ray weary feet. 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 

The bitter blast that round me blawa 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cans© 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 



ADDEESS TO THE WOODLAES, 42S 



Mepli/ to the Foregoing. 



^Os tell me na o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid me na wi' cauld disdain -5 
•^ae back the gait ye cam again^ 
I winna let you in, je ! 



1 tell you now this ane night, 

This ane, aue, ane night ; 
And ance for a' this ane night, 

I winna let you in, jo, 

Tlie snellest lilast, at mirkest hours, 
'That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 
Is nocht to what poor she endures, 
That's trusted faithless man, je. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the meadj 
^ow trodden like the vilest weed j 
l^et simple maid the lesson read. 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 

'The bird that cliarm'd his summer day, 
3s now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Jjet witless, trusting, woman say 
Howvaft her fate's the same, jo. 



l>cnirE — Where' II Bonnie Ann lie ? or, Loch-Froch Sids, 

•Gh staj', sweet warbling wook-lark, stay 
Nor quit me for the trembHng spray, 
-A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing, fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part. 
That I may catch thy melting art; 
For sur€ily that w^d touch her heart. 
Wha kills me ^vi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind f 
Oh ! nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Thou tells 0' never-ending care ; 
Oh speechless grief, and darfc despair; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae maic^ 
Or my poor heart is broken i 



424 



BtTRNS S POETICAL W0RK3» 

Tune — Ai/e waJcin, O. 



Long, long the night. 
Heavy comes the morrow^. 

Wliile my soul's delight 
Is on her bed of sorrowo 

Can I cease to care, 

Can I cease to languish. 

While my darling fair 
Is on the couch of . anguish ? 

Every hope is fled. 

Every fear is terror; 
Slumber even I dread, 

Every dream is horror. 

Hear me. Powers divine ! 

Oh ! in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine. 

But my Chloris spare 



me! 



Tune — 'Humours of Glen. 

Tbteib groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckoia^ 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume y 

Par dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
Wi' the burn steaUng under the lang yellow broom. 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers. 
Where the blue-bcU and gowan lurk lowly unseen ; 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A-Ustening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Tho' rich in the breeze, in their gay sunny vallies, 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the i)roud palace> 
Wliat are they ? — tlie haunt of the tyrant and slave ! 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,- 
The brave Caledonian views with disdain ; 

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 
Save love's willing fetters — the chains of his J«a9u 



MASK TON POMP OF COUETLY FiAiSHION. 425 

HOW CE17EL ARE THE PARENTS. 

/^LTEEEB PEOM AN OLD SCOTTISH SONG. 

Tune — John Anderson my Jo, 



How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize ; 
And to the wealthy booby, 

Poor woman sacrifice ! 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 

The rav'ning hawk pursuing 

The trembling dove th^is flies, 
^0 shun impelling ruin 

Awhile her pinion tries 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer. 

And drops beneath his feet ! 



TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE FE WAS MY EUDf. 

Tune — Ijaddie, lie near me, 

'Tw'AS na her bcnnie blue e'e was my ruin; 
Eair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind <l8, 
*Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o* kindneasu 

iBair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 

TQueen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love the dearest! 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter. 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



MAKE YON POMP OF COURTLY FASHION. 
Tune — Beil taJc the Wars. 

Maek yonder pomp of courtly fashion, 

Round the wealthy, titled bride; 
But when compar'd with real passion. 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

2i£$ 



i2& BUENS'S POETICAL WOEXS;^ 

What ai'e the showy treasures ? 

What are the noisy pleasures ? 
The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art? 

The pohshed jewel's bla25e 

May draw the wond'ring gaze. 

And courtly grandeur bright 

The fancy may delight. 
But never, never can come near the heart.. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simphcity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is. 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

Oh then the heart alarming^ 

And all resistless, charming, 
in Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing souU 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown. 

Even Avarice would deny" 

His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel thro' ev'ry vein Lovers raptu!»s rolL 



OH, THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIR. 

Tune — This is no mt/ ain Hause^ 

Oh this is no my ain lassie. 

Fair tho*^ the lassie be ! 
Oh weel ken I my ain lassie,. 

Kind love-is in her e-Oi 

I see a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place ; 
It wants, to me, the witching grace,. 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tal^. 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And aje it diamis my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her e'e; 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light as lovers' een,. 
When kind love is in the e*e. 

It may escape the courtly sparks^ 
it may escape the learned clerks, 
But weel tbe watching lover marks. 
The kind love that's in her e*e^ 



OH BONNIE WAS TG2f ROSY B51IEE,. 427 

mow SFillNG HAS CLAD THE OROVE m GKEEK. 

l^ow spring has clad the g^rove in green. 

And strew 'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
Tlie furrow'd, weaving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
Vv^hile ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
Oh w^hy thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ! 

Hie trout within yon wimpling hum 

Glides swift — a silver dart, 
And safe heneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art. 
My life was ance that careless streats^ 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' uirrelenting heam. 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows. 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I weft, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past. 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the with'ring blast 

My youth and joy consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling sidings. 

And claims the early sky. 
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings 

In morning's ros}' eye. 
As little reck'd I sorrow's power. 

Until the flowery snare 
C witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made mo the thrall o' care. 

Oh had my fate been Greenland snows 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whose doom is, " hope nae mskt^ 

What tongue his w^oes can tell ? 
Within whose bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



OH BOISTNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER. 

Oh bonnio was yon rosy brier. 

That blooms so far frae haunt o' man ; 

And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear I 
It shiided frae the e'enin* sun. 



^2S BTJETfB^S POETICAL WOUKS^, 

Ton rosebuds in the morning- dew, 
How pure amang the leaves sae green ^. 

But purer was the lo-ver's vow 
They witness'd in their shade yestreen* 

All in its rude and priekly bower, 

That crimson rose, how sweet aiid fair r 

Sut love IS far a sweeter flower 
Amid Ufa's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild and wimpling burn^ 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn. 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



JORLORN MY LOVE, NO COMFORT N-ITA^ 
Tune — Let me in this ane Niglit 

FoELOEN my love, no comfort near ^ 
Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 
Far, far from thee the fate severe 
At which I mx)st repine^ love. 

CHOUUS, 

Oh wert thou, love, but near me-; 
But near me, but near me : 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,- 
And mingle siglis with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintrj' sky. 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ? 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I^ 
Save in those aniis af thine, love. 

Cold, alter '^d friendship's cruel part. 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faitliful hearty 

And say that fate \a mine, lave. 

But dreary tha' the moiiwnts fleet. 
Oh let me think we yet shall meet I 
The only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 



HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHEB. 

Tune — Balinamona ora. 

AwA wi' your witchcraft o* beauty's alarms, 
1'he slentkr bit beauty you grasp in your anns ; 
Oh, gi'e me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
Uh, gi'e mc the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 



LAST MAT A BEAW WOOER 429 



Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher — the nice yellow guineas fer me. 

Yonr beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows : 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes, 
Bk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest ; 
But the sweet yellow darhngs wi' Geordie imprest, 
The langer ye ha'e them, the mair they're carest. 



LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. 
Tune — The Lothian Lassie. 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 

And sair with his love he did deave me ; 
I said there was naething I hated like men — 

The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, beUeve me. 

The deuce gae wi'm to beheve me. 

He spak o' the dai-ts o' my bonny black een, 

And vow'd for my love he was djdng ; 
I said he might die when he liked for Jean — 

The Lord forgi'e me for lying, for lying, 

The Lord forgi'e me for lying. 

A well-stocked mailen, himsel' for the laird. 

And marriage aff-hand were his proffers ; 
I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd. 

But thought I maun ha'e waur offers, waur offers. 

But I thought I might ha'e waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ? — in a fortnight or less. 

The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 

Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, could bear her, 

Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 

I gaed to the tryst at Dalgarnock, 
And wha but m}^ fine fickle lover was there, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre ray left shouther I ga'e him a blink, 

Lest neibors might say I was saucy ; 
My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie. 

And vow'd I was liis dear lassie. 



4-30 BURNS S POETICAL -SVOKKS. 

1 spicr'd for my cousin fu' coulhy and sweet, 
Gin she had recovered her hearing', 

And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet, 
But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin', a-sweuriug, 
But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearin'. 

He be^rged, for guidsake, I wad be his wife, 
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow: 

So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 
I think I maun wed him to-mon'ow. 



Tune — The Caledonian Hunfs Delight. 

Why, why tell thy lover. 

Bliss he never must enjoy ? 
Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie ? 

Oh why, while fancy, raptur'd slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme, 

Why, why wouldst thou cruel. 
Wake thy lover from his dream ? 



^mvi. 



Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ! 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ! 

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lover 's meet, 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 

Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied : 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Then aught in the world beside — Jessy ! 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day. 
As hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
For then I am lock't in thy arms — Jessy ! 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love roUing e'e ; 
But why urge the tender confession, 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessy. 



HANDSOME NELL. ^H 

FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS. 
Tune — Bothiemurche, 

CHOKUS. 

Faieest maid on Devon banks, 

Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 

And smile as thou were wont to do. 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Could'st thou to malice lend an ear ? 
Oh, did not love exclaim,* " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithfu' lover so ?'* 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair. 
Those wonted smiles, oh let me share I 
And, by thy beauteous self I swear. 
No love but thine my heart shall know 



HANDSOME NELL. 

Oh once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Aye, I love her still ; 
And whilst that honour warms my breast, 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

As bonnie lasses I ha'e seen, 

And mony full as braw ; 
But for a modest gracefu* mien. 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess. 

Is pleasant to the e'e, 
But without some better qualities^ 

She's no the lass for me. 

But Nelly*s looks are blythe and sweet. 

And, what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete. 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat. 

Both decent and genteel : 
And then there's something in her gaifc 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May slightly touch the heart ; 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul ; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without controL 



432 BUENs's poEa:ici.L works, 

MV FATHER WAS A FARMER 

Tune — TJie Weaver and his Shuttle, O. 

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O, 
And carefully he bred me in decency and order, ; 
He bade me act a manly yart, though I had ne'er a farthing, 0, 
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regard- 
ing, O. 

Then out into the world my jcourse I did determine, O; 1 : 
Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming 
My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, • 
Resolved was I, at least to try, to mend my situation, 0. 

In many a wa}^, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour, O ; 

Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endea- 
vour, 0. 

Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd; sometimes by friends 
forsaken, O. 

And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, 0. 

Tlien sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's vain delu- 
sion, 0, \p— 
I di-opt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, 
The past was l>ad, and the future hid ; its good or ill untried, 0; 
But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, ; 
So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain me, : 
To plough and sow, and reap and mow, any father bred me earl v, 
0; [6. 

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to 

wander, 0, 
Till down my weary bones I lay, in everlasting slumber, 0, 
No view nor care, but shim whatever might breed me pain or 

sorrow, O ! 
I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow, 0. 

But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch in a palace, O, 
Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted 

malice, O : 
I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther, ; 
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, 0, 

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O, 
Some unforseen misfortune comes geu'rally upon me, ; 
ISIischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd folly, ; 
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er te melancholy, O. 



HEY, THE DUSTY MILLEE. 455 

Ail jcm who follow wealth and power wi' unremitting ardour, O, 
'Ihe raorc in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the far- 
ther, O; 
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O, 
S cheerftil, honest-hearted clown I will prefer befare you, O, 



tp in i^t Blnrmiig mlij. 

TtJNB — Cold blows the Wind, 
CHOBITS. 

Up in the morning's na for me, 
Up in the morning early : 

When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snav? 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west. 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 

A' day they fare but sparely ; 
And lang's the night fra e'en to mom— 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 



Mt% \\i Iiistij MM 

Ttjne— I^7i5 Dusty Miller, 

Hey, the dusty miller. 

And his dusty coat ; 
He will win a shilling. 

Or he spend a groat. 
Dusty was the coat, 

Dusty was the colour, 
Dusty was the kiss 

That I got frae the millef . 

Hev the dusty miller, 
And his dusty sack ; 
Leeze me on the calling 
Fills the dusty peck^ 
Fills the dusty peck, 

Brings the dusty siller ; 
I wad gi'e my coatie 
For the dusty miller. 



2^ 2 IT 



434 • BUBFS'S P0ETIC1.L WOEITS. 

Tune — Dainty Davie^ 

Theue was a lad was born in Kj'le, 
But whatna day o' whatua style 
I doubt its bardly worth the while 
Te be sae nice wi' Robin. 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantiu' rovia', 
'^ Robin was a rovin' boy, 

Rantin' rovin' Robin. 

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
*Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win' 
Blew hansel in on RobJii. 

The gossip keekit in his loof. 
Quo scho, wha lives will see the proof, 
This vraley boy will be nae coof ; 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 

He'll ha*e misfortunes great and sma', 
But aye a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'il be a credit till us a' — 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But sure as three tynes three mak nine, 
I see by ilka score and line. 
This chap will dearly like our kin', 
So leeze me on thee^ Robin. 



THE BELLES OP MAUCHLINE. 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper yoimp: belles, 

The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a', 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, 

In London or Paris they'd gotten it a'. 
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw, 
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton, 

But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'. 



"Mn jTlnming larks. 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hiiig ; 
How sweet unto that breast to cling, 
And round that neck entwine her. 



L 



THE JOTPUL WIDOWEK. 435 

Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 
Oh, what a feast her bonnie mou' ! 
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 
A crunson still diviner. 



THE SONS OF OLD KILLIE. 

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

To follow the noble vocation, 
Yonr thrifty old mother has scarce such an( ther 

To sit in that honoured station. 
I've little to say, but only to pray, 

As prajang's the ton of your fashion ; 
A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, 

'Tis seldom her favorite passion. 

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide, 

Who marked each element's border ; 
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, 

Whose sovereign statute is order ; 
Within this dear mansion may way^vard contentioiu 

Or withered envy ne'er enter : 
May secrecy round be the mystical bound, 

And brotherly love be the centre. 



Tfwe — Maggy Lauder. 

I married with a scolding wife. 

The fourteenth of November; 
She made me weary of my life. 

By one unnily member. 
Long did I bear the heavy yoke. 

And many griefs attended ; 
But to my comfort be it spoke, 

Now, now her life is ended. 

We lived fuU one-and-twenty years, 

A man and wife together ; 
At length from me her course she steer'd. 

And gone I know not whither : 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak and do not flatter, 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 

Her bod}^ is bestowed well, 
A handsome grave does hide her ; 

But sure her soul is not in hell, 
The deil would ne'er abide herl 



436 BURXS'S rOETICAL WORKS. 

I rather think she is aloft, 
And imitating thunder; 

For why ? — methinks I hear her voice 
Tearing the clouds assunder 1 



Tune — Bonnie Dundee. 

0, WHAEE did yon get that hauver meal bannock ? 

Oh silly blind body, oh dinna ye see ? 
I gat it frae a brisk young sodger laddie, 

Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee, 
Oh, gin I saw the laddie that ga'e me't ! 

Aft has he doudled me upon his knee ; 
May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie, 

And send him safe hame to his babie afld me ! 

My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie, 

My blessin's upon thy bonnie e'e-bree ! 
Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, 

Thou's aye the dearer and dearer to me ! 
But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks, 

Where Taj' rins wimplin' by sae clear ; 
And I'll deed thee in the tartan sae fine, 

And mak thee a man like thy daddio dear. 



^m mKB E f ass. 

Tune — Duncan Davison., 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 

And she held o'er the moors to spin ; 
There was a lad that foUow'd her, 

They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
The moor was driegh, and meg was skeigb. 

Her favour Duncan could na win ; 
For wi' the rock she wad him knock. 

And aye she shook the temper-pin. 

As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green, 
Upon the banks they eas'd their shanks, 

And aye she set the wheel between ; 
But Duncan swore a haly aith 

That Meg should be a bride the morn. 
Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith, 

And flung them a' out o'er the burn. 

We'll big a house — a wee, wee house, 
And we wdll live like king and queen, 

Sae l)lythe and merry we will be 
"When we sit by the wheel at een. 



KATLIn' EOAEIn' WILLIE. 437 

A man may drink and no be drunk ; 

A man may fight and no be slain ; 
A man may kiss a bonnie lass, 

And aye be welcome back again. 



Tune — Sei/ tuttie, taittie^ 

Landlady, count the lawin, 
The day is near the dawin ; 
Ye're a' blind drunk, boys, 
And I'm but jolly fou. 

Hey tuttie, taittie, 

How tuttie, taittie— 

Wha's fou now ? 

Cog, an ye were aye fou. 
Cog, an ye were aye fou, 
I wad sit and sing to you, 
If ye were aye fou. 

Weel may ye a' be I 
111 may we never see t 
God bless the king, boys 
And the companie I 



tattliii' UDEriE' mWk, 

Tune — BattlirC Boarin Willie* 

Oh, rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Oh, he held to the fair. 
And for to sell his fiddle, 

And buy some other ware ; 
But parting wi' his fiddle, 

The saut tear blin't his e'e ; 
And rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 

Oh Willie, come sell 3^our fiddle. 

Oh sell your fiddle sae fine ; 
Oh Willie, come sell your fiddle. 

And buy a pint o' wine. 
If I should sell my fiddle. 

The warl would think I was madj 
For mony a rantin' day 

My fiddle and I ha'e had. 

As I cam by Crochallan, 

I cannnily keekit ben— 
"Ratlin' roarin' Willie 

Was sitting at yon board en* — • 

2n3 



438 EUJiNs's POETICAL WOUKS. 

Sitting at y( n board ne*, 
And amang guid companie 

Eatlin* roarin' Willie, 
Ye're welcome hame to me 



Tune — Aye Waukin, O, 

Simmer's a pleasant time, 
Flow'rs of every colom* ; 

The water rins o'er the heugh, 
And I long for my true lover. 

Aye waukin O, 

Waukin still and weary 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 

When I sleep I dream, 
When I wauk I'm eene : 

Sleep I can get nane 
For thinking on my dearie. 

Lanely night comes on, 
A' the lave are sleeping ; 

I think on my bonnie lad. 
And bleer my een wi' greetin 



M\\ %ni $\i'^ lint K fH55fe ifet 

Tune — JLady JBadinscotli s S>eel» 

Mt love she's but a lassie j^et. 

My love she's but a lassie yet. 
We'll let her stand a year or twa, 

She'll no be half sae saucy yet. 
I rue the day I sought her, O, 

I rue the day I sought her, ; 
Wha gets her needs na say she's woo'd 

But he may say he's bought her, ! 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet. 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, 

But here I never miss'd it yet. 
We're a' dry wi* drinking o't, 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's vnfe, 

And could na preach for thinking o't. 



THEEE S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 439 

THE CAPTAIN'S LADY. 

Tune— 07i Mount and Go, 

CHOEUS. 

Oh mount and go, 

Mount and make you ready ; 
Oh mount and go, 

And be the captain's lady. 

When the drums do beat, 

And the cannons rattle, 
Thou shalt sit in state, 

And see thy love in battle. 

When the vanquish'd foe 

Sues for peace and quiet, 
To the shades we'll go, 

And in love enjoy it. 



FIRST WHEN MAGGY WAS MY CAM 
Tune — Whistle o^er the lave oH, 

First when Maggy was my care. 
Heaven I thought was in her air, 
Now we're married — spier nae mair — 

Wliistle o'er the lave o't. 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child ; 
Wiser men than me's beguil'd — 
Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

How we live, my Meg and me, 
How we live, and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Wha I wish were maggot's meat 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 
To a Gaelic air, 

There's a youth in this city, it were a gi-eat pity 

That he frae our lasses should wander awa ; 
For he's bonnie and braw, weel favour'd and a', 

And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue, 

His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw ; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, 

And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a', 



440 rrENs's poetical woeks* 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin' ; 

Weel-featur'd, wee-tocher'd, weel-mounted, and braw ; 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, 

The penny's the jewel that beautities a'. 
There's Meg with the mailen that fain wad a-haen him ; 

And Susan, whose daddie was laird o' the ha' ; 
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his fancy — 

But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'. 



OH, AYE MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. 
Tune — My Wife she dang me. 

Oh aye my wife she dang me, 

And aft my wife did bang me, 
If ye gi'e a woman a' her will, 

Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye. 
On peace and rest my mind was bent, 

And fool I was I married; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarried. 

Some sa'r o' comfort still at last, 

When a' my days are done, man ; 
My pains o' hell ou earth are past, 

I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 
Oh aye my wife she dang me. 

And aft my wife did bang me, 
K ye gi'e a woman a' her will 

Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye. 



EPPIE ADAIR, 

Tune — ILi/ Ejypie, 

And oh ! my Eppie, 
]\Iy jewel, my Eppie ! 
Wlia wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair r 
l^y love, and by beauty 
]5y law, and by duty 
I swear to be true to 

My Eppie Adair ! 

And oh ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie, 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair ? 
A' nleasure exile me. 
Dishonour defile me. 
If e'er I beguile thee, 

My Eppie Adair I 



THE BATTLE OF SHEEEIFP-MUIK. 441 

THE BATTLE OF SHERRIFF-MUIK. 
Tune — Cameronian Bant* 

" Oh cam ye here the fight to shun, 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
Or where ye at the Sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man ? " 
" I saw the battle sair and tough, 
And reekin' red ran mony a sheugh, 
My heart for fear, gaed sough for sough. 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, 
O' clans frae woods in tartan duds, 

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades, 

To meet them were na slow, man ; 

They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'd, 

Ajad mony a bouk did fa', man : 
The great Argyle led on his files, 
I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles , 
They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords clash \1^ 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd, and smash'd. 

Till fey men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philabegs. 

And skyrin tartan trews, man ; 
When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large. 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe. 
And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath. 

They fled like frighted doos, man." 

" Oh how deil, Tam, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man ; 
I saw myself they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
And at Dunblane, in my ain sight. 
They took the brig with a' their might, 
And straight to Stirling wing'd their flight, 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; 
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat. 

For fear amaist did swarf, man ! " 

" My sister Kate cam up the gate, 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will 



442 BUENS S POETICAL ^VOEKS, 

lliat day their neibor*s blood to spill ; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose — all crying woes ; 
And so it goes, you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen 
Amang the Highland clans, man ; 
I fear my lord Panmure is slain, 

Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man : 
Now wad ye sing this double fight. 
Some fell for wi-ang, and some for right ; 
But mony bade the world guid night ; 
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell. 
By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 
Wi' d3dng yell the Tories fell, 
And Whigs to hell did flee, man. 



THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT. 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Without a penny in my purse, 

To buy a meal to me. 

It was na sae in the Highland bills, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the country wide 

Sae happy was as me. 

For then I had a score o' kye, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Feeding on yon hills so high. 

And giving milk to me. 

And there I had three score o' yowes, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes, 

And casting woo' to me. 

I was the happiest of a' the clan, 

Sair, sair may I repine ; 
For Donald was the brawest lad, 

And Donald he was mine. 

Till Charlie Stewart cam at last, 

Sae far to set us free ; 
My Donald's arm was wanted then, 

For Scotland and for me. 

Their waefu' fate what need I tell ? 

Right to the wrang did yield : 
My Donald and his country fell 

Upon Culloden's field. 



THEIflEL MENZIE's EONIflE MAST 443 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the world wide 

Sae wretched now as me. 



WHARE HA'E YE BEEN? 
Tune — Killicrankie. 

Whake ha'e ye been sae braw, lad ? 

Whare ha'e ye been sae brankie, O ? 
Oh whare ha'e ye been sae braw, lad ? 

Cam ye by Killicrankie, O ? 
An ye had been whare I ha'e been, 

Ye wad na been sae cantie, O ; 
An ye had seen what I ha'e seen, 

On the braes of KiUicrankie, O. 

I fought at land, I fought at sea ; 

At hame I fought my auntie, : 
But I met the devil and Dundee, 

On the braes of Killicrankie, O. 
The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr, 

And Clavers got a clankie, ; 
Or I had fed on Athole gled, 

On the braes o' KiUicrankife, 0. 



THENIEL IVIENZIE'S BONNIE MARl 

Tune— r/ze Ruffian's Bant 

In coming by the brig o' Dye, 

At Darlet we a bhnk did tarry ; 
As day was dawin in the sky. 

We drank a health to bonnie Mary, 
Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary ; 
Charhe Gregor tint his plaidie. 

Kissing Theniel's bonnie Mary. 

Her een sae bright, her brow sae white, 

Her haftet locks as brown's a berry ; 
And aye they dimpl't wi' a smile. 

The rosy cheeks o' bonnie Mary. 
We lap and danc'd the lee-lang day, 

Till piper lads were wae and weary ; 
But Charlie gat the spring to pay, 

For kissing Theniel's bonnie Mary. 



444 BUENS'S POETICJlL woeks. 

FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE. 

AiE — Carron Side, 

Fkae tlie friends and land I love 

Driv'n by fortune's felly spite, 
Frae my best belov'd I rove, 

Never mair to taste delight : 
Never mair maun hope to find 

Ease frae toil, reUef frae care ; 
When remembrance racks the mind, 

Pleasures but unveil despair. 

Brightest climes shall mirk appear, 

Desert ilka blooming shore, 
Till the Fates, nae mair severe, 

Friendship, love, and peace restore : 
Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head. 

Bring our banished hame again ; 
And ilka loyal bonnie lad 

Cross the sea and win his ain. 



GANE IS THE DAY. 

Tune — Gruidwife, Count the Lawin, 

Gane is the day, and mirks the night, 
But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light ; 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon. 
And bluid-red wine's the rising sun. 

Then guidwife, count the lawin. 

The lawin, the lawin ; 
Then guidwife, count the lawin. 

And bring a coggie mair. 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
And simple folk maun fight and fen ; 
But here we're a' in ae accord. 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 

"My coggie is a lialy pool. 

That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 

And pleasure is a wanton trout. 

An ye drink but deep ye'll find Jiim out. 



THE TITHER MORN. 
TuKE — To a Highland air. 

The tither morn, when I forlorn, 
Aneath an aik sat moaning, 

I did na trow, I'd see my jo, 
Beside me, gain the gloaming. 



IT IS NA, JEAN; THY BONNIE FACE, 445 

But he sae trig, lap o'er tlie rig, 

And dawtingly did cheer me, 
When I, what reck, did least expec' 

To see my lad so near me. 

His bonnet he, a thought ajee, 

Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me. 
And I, I wat, wi' fainness grat, 

Wliile in his grips he press'd me. 
Deil tak the war I late and air, 

Ha'e wish'd since Jock departed ; 
But now as glad I'm wi' my lad, 

As short syne broken-hearted. 

Fu' aft at e'en wi' dancing keen. 

When a' were blythe and merry, 
I car'd na by, sae sad was I, 

In absence o' my dearie. 
But, praise be blest, my mind's at rest, 

I'm happy wi* my Johnny ; 
At kirk and fair, I'se aye be there, 

And be as canty's ony. 



COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE. 
Tune — O'er the Water to Charlie, 

Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, 

Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 
I'll gi'e John Ross another bawbee, 

To boat me o'er to Charlie. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 
We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 

Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go. 
And live or die wi' Charlie. 

I lo'e well my Charlie's name, 
Tho' some there be abhor him ; 

But, oh ! to see auld nick gaun hame, 
Ajid Charlie's face before him ! 

I swear and vow, by moon and stars, 

And sun, that shines so early, 
If I had twenty thousand lives, 

I'd die as aft for Charlie. 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. 
Tune — The Maid's Complaint 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, 

Nor shape. that I admire, 
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awake desire. 

2o 



446 BUENS'S POETICiX WOBKS, 

Something in ilka part of tbee, 
To praise, to love, I find ; 

But dear as is thy form to me, 
Still dearer is thy mind. 

Nae mair ungen'rous wish I ha'e, 

Nor stronger in my breast, 
Than if I canna mak thee sae, 

At least to see thee blest. 
Content am I, if Heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee : 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 

For thee I'd bear to die. 



I HA'E A WIFE 0' MY AIN. 
Tums — "Naebody, 

I HA*E a wife o' my ain — 

I'll partake wi' naebody ; 
I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 

I'll gi'e cuckold to naebody. 
I ha'e a penny to spend, 

There — thanks to naebody ; 
I ha*e naething to lend, 

I'U borrow frae naebody. 

I am naebody's lord — 

I'U be slave to naebody ; 
I ha'e a guid braid sword, 

I'll tak dunts frae naebody 
ril be merry and free, 

m be sad for naebody ; 
If naebody care for me, 

I'll care for naebody. 



WITHSDALE'S WELCOME HOMK. 

Thb noble Maxwells and their powers 

Are coming o'er the border. 
And they'll gae bigg Terreagle's towers 

And set them a' in order. 
And they declare Terreagle's fail , 

For their abode tliey chuse it ; 
There's no a heart in a' the land, 

But's lighter at the news o't. 

Tlio* stars in skies may disappear 
And angry tempests gatlier. 

The happy hour may soon ]je near 
That brings us pleasant weather : 



MY COLLIES LADDIE. 4^ 

The weary night o' care and grief 

May ha'e a joyful morrow ; 
So dawning day has brought relief— 

Fareweel our night o' sorrow ! 



MY COLLIER LADDIE, 

Tune — The Collier Laddie, 

Wheee live ye my bonnie lass ? 

And tell me what they ca' ye; 
My name, she says, is mistress Jean, 

And I foUow the Collier Laddie. 
My name she says, is mistress Jean, 

And I follow the Collier Laddie. 

See you not j^on hills and dales, 
The sun shines on sae brawlie ! 

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine. 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie, 

They a' ar« mine, and they shall be thine- 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 

Ye shall gang in gay attire, 

Weel busket up sae gaudy ; 
And ane to wait on every hand, 

Gin ye'll leavo your Collier Laddie. 
And ane to wait on every hand. 

Gin ye'U leave your ColHer Laddie, 

Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on, 
And the e:;rth conceals sae lowly ; 

I wad turn my back on you and it a'. 
And embrace my Collier Laddie, 

I wad turn my back on yo^i and it a'. 
And embrace my Collier Laddie. 

I can win my five pennies in a day, 
And spend it at night fu' brawHe ; 

And make my bed in the CoUier's neut, 
And lie down wi' my CoUier Laddie, 

And make my bed in the Collier's neuk. 
And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. 

Luve for luve is the bargain for me, 
Tho' the wee cot-house should baud me ; 

And the world before me to win my bread. 
And fair fa' my Colher Laddie. 

And the world before me to win my bread. 
And fair fa' my CoUier Laddie. 



^9 BUBNS'S POETICAL WOSKS, 

AS I WAS A.W.\NDERIXO. 
Tune— J2mw Mcudial mo WieaUadh. 

is I was a-wandering ane raidsummGr o'eniii', _ 

The pipers and youngsters were raakini? their gaine j 
Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover, ^ 

Which hied a' the wounds o' my dolour agam. 
Weel, since he has left me, my pleasure gae wi' him ; 

I may he distress'd, but I winna complain, 
I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 
I couldna g£t sleeping till dawin for greetin', 

The tears trickled down Uke the hail and the ram y 
Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken. 

For oh ! love forsaken's a tormenting pain. 
Although he has left me for greed o' the siller, 

I dinna envy him the gains he can win ; 
I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow 

Than ever ha'e acted sae faithless to him. 



YE JACOBITES BY NAME. 

Tune — Ye Jacobites h^/ i^^^' 

Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear > 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear ; 
Ye Jacobites by name, 
Your fautes I will proclaim, 
Your doctrines I maun blame— 
You shall hear. 
What is right and what is wrang, by the law, by the law 
What is right and what is wrang by the law ? 
What is right and what is wrang by the law ? 
A short sword and a lang, 
A weak arm, and a Strang 
For to draw. 
What makes heroic strife fam'd afar, fam'd afar ? 
What makes heroic stnfe fam'd afar ? 
What makes heroic strife ? 
To whet th' assassin's knife, 
Or hunt a parent's life, 
Wi' bluidie war. 
Tlien let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state ; 
Then let your schemes alone in the state; 
Then let your schemes alone, 
Adore the rising sun. 
And leave a man undone 
To his i'ate. 



jx>cket's ta*en the pae2:ing kiss. tid 

LADY MARY ANN. 

Tune — Craigtown^s Growing^ 

OHj Lady Mary Ann looked o'er tlie castle wa* ; 
She saw three bonnie boys playing at the ba' ; 
The youngest he was the flower amang them a* — 
My bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet« 

Oh father ! oh father ! an ye think it fit, 
¥v''e'll send him a year to the college yet : 
We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat. 
And that will let them ken he's to marry yet. 

Lady Mary Ann was a flower i' the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue ; 
And the langer it blossom'd the sweeter it grew : 
For the lily in the bud will be bonnier yet. 

Young Charlie Cochrane was the sprout of an aik; 
Bonnie and bloomin' and straught was its make, 
The sun took delight to shine for its sake. 
And it wall be the brag q' the forest yet. 

The simmer is gane when the leaves they were greea. 
And the days are awa that we ha'e seen ; 
But far bett^' days I trust will come again, 

For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin yet. 



OUT OVER THE FORTH. 

Tune— C^^r^ie Gordon's Welcome Same, 

Out over the Forth I took to the north, 

But what is the north and its Highlands to me ? 

The south nor the east gi'es ease to my breast, 
The far foreign land, or the wild-roKing sea. 

But I look to the west when I gae to rest, 
. That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be ; 
For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS. 
Tune — Jockey's tcCen the Farting Kiss, 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 
O'er the mountains he's gane ; 

And within him is a' my bliss, 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 

29 2o3 



450 BFUNS'S POETICAI. WOEK* 

Spare ray luve, ye winds that blaw. 
Flashy sleets and beating rain I 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain. 

When the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 
Sound and safely may he sleep, 

Sweetly blythe his waukening be 
He will think on her he loves, 

Fondly he*ll repeat her name ; 
For where'er he distant roves, 

Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



THE CARLES 0' DYSART> 
TvTSM—Hetf ca* thro*. 

Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, 
And the lads o' Buckhaven^ 

And the kimmers o' Largo, 
And the lasses o' Leven. 

Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro*. 
For we ha'e mickle adO'; 

Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 
For we ha'e mickle ado* 

Vie ha'e tales to tell, 

And we ha'e sangs to sing ; 
And we ha'e pennies to spend, 

And we ha'e pints to bring* 

We'll live a' our days, 

And them that come behin'. 
Let them do the like, 

And spend the gear they win* 



LADY ONLIE. 

TvNB—The Ruffian's Bant 

A' the lads o' Thomie-bank, 

When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, 
They'll step in and tak a pint 
Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

J^rews good ale at shore o' Bncky! 
I wish her sale for her guid ale, 
The best on a' the shore of Buckjp, 



J-ENNY'S a' WAT, POOS BODY. 151 

Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean, 

1 vvat she is a dainty chucky ; 

And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed 

Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 

Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews guid ale at shore o' Bucky ; 
I wish her sale for her guid ale, 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 



¥OUNG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A' THE PLAIN, 
TuiTE — The Carlin 6' the Glen, 

YoTTiJrG Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 
Sae gallant and sae gay a swain. 
Thro' a' our lasses he did rove. 
And reign'd resistless king of love : 
But now with sighs and starting tears, 
He strays amang the woods and briers ; 
Or in the glens and rocky caves 
His sad complaining dowie raves. 

I, wha sae late did range and rove. 
And chang'd with every moon my love, 
I little thought the time was near, 
Kepentance I should buy sae dear : 
The slighted maids my torment see, 
And laugh at a' the pangs I dree ; 
While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair 
Forbids me e'er to see her mairl 



JENNY'S A' WAT, POOR BODY 

Tune — Coining thro^ the Bj/e, 

Coming thro' the rye, poor body, 

Coming through the rye. 
She di-aiglet a' hei* petticoatie, 
Coming thro' the rye. 

Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatiej. 
Coming through the rye. 

&in a body meet a body 

Coming thro' the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry ? 

Gin a body meet a body 

Coming thro' the glen. 
Gin a body kiss a body 

Need the warld ken ? 



452 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEK& 

THE CARDIN' O'T. 

Tune — Salt-fish and Dumplings* 

I COPT a stane o' haslock woo', 

To make a wat to Johnny o't ; 
For Johnny is my only jo, 
I lo'e him best of ouy yet. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o*t, 

The vvarpin' o't, the winnin' o'fcj 
When ilka ell cast me a groat. 
The tailor staw the linin' o't. 

For tho' his locks be lyart grey, 
And though his brow be held aboon; 

Yet I ha'e seen him on a day, 
The pride of a' the parishen. 



TO THEE, LOVED NITH. 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd^ 

Tho' prest wi' care and sunk in woe. 
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart. 
Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear I 



SAE FAR AWA. 

Tune — I>alkeith Maiden Bridge, 

On, sad and heavy should I part, 

But for her sake sae far awa. 
Unknowing what my way may thwart 

My native land sae far awa. 
Thou that of a' things Maker art, 

That form'd this fair sae far awa, 
Gi'e body strength, then I'll ne'er start 

At this my way sae far awa. 

How true is love to pure desert, 

So love to her, sae far awa : 
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart. 

While, oh ! she is sae far awa. 
Nane other love, nane other dart, 

I feel but hor's, sae far awa ; 
But fairer never touch'd a heart 

Than her's, the fair sae far awa. 



THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 453 

WAE IS MY HEAKT. 

Tune — Wae is my "E-earU 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e ; 
Lang, lang, joy's been a stranger to me : 
Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear, 
And the sweet voice of pity ne'er sounds in my ear. 

Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep ha'e I loved : 
Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair ha'e I prov'd : 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, 
I can feel that its throbbings will soon be at rest. 

Oh, if I were happy where happy I ha'e been, 
Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle-green ; 
For there he is wand'ring, and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae PhiUis's e'e. 



AMANG THE TREES. 
Tune — The King ofErance lie rade a "Race, 

Amang the trees where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hinging, O, 
Auld Caledon di-ew out her drone, 

And to her pipe was singing, O ; 
'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, 

She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, 0, 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squ^els, 

That dang her tapsalterie, O. 

Their capon craws, and queer ha, ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie, O ; 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

Till we were wae and weary, O. 
But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cased, 

A prisoner aughteen year awa. 
He fir'd a fiddler in the north 

That dang them tapsalterie, 0. 



THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 
Tune — IfthovUlplay me Fair PZdy* 

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, 
Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 

Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, 
Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; 

His loyal heart was firm and true, 
Bonnie Highlacid laddie. 



454 BURNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie ; 
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 
Glory, honour, now invite, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie, 
For freedom and my king to fight, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 

The sun a backward course shall taka, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
*Ere aught thy manly corn-age shake^ 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
Go ! for yourself procure renown, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
And for your lawful king and crown, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



BANNOCKS 0' BARLEY. 

Tune — The Killogie, 

Bannocks o' bear meal. 

Bannocks o' barle}^, 
Here's to the Highlandman's 

Bannocks o' barley. 
Wlia in a brulzie 

Will first cry a parley ? 
Never the lads wi* 

The bannocks o' barley. 

Bannocks o' bear meal. 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the lads wi* 

The bannocks o' barley ! 
Wha in his wae-days 

Were loyal to Charlie ? 
Wha but the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley ? 



ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST. 
cnoaus. 

Robin shure in hairst, 

I shure wi' him ; 
Ficnt a heuk had I, 

Yet I stuck by him. 

I gaed up to Dunse, 

To wari) a web o' plaiden ; 
At his daddie's yett, 

Wha met me but Robin ? 



hebb's a bottle and an honest tkiend. 455 

Was na Robin bauld, 

Though I was a cotter, 
Play'd me sic a trick, 

And me the eller's dochter ? 

Robin promis'd me 

A' my winter vittel : 
Fient haet he had but three 

Goose feathers and a wittle. 



SWEETEST MAY. 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee ; 
Take a heart which he desires thee ; 
As thy constant slave r^ard it ; 
For its faith and truth reward it. 

Proof o' shot to birth or money, 
Not the wealthy but the bonnie ; 
Not high-born, but noble-minded 
In love's silken band can bind it. 



THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN. 
Tune — Jacky Latin. 

Gat ye me, oh gat ye me. 

Oh gat ye me wi' naething, 
Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye attour, my gutcher has 

A hich house and a laigh ane, 
A' forbye my bonnie sel'. 

The lass of Ecclefechan. 

Oh hand your tongue now, Luckie Laing, 

Oh hand your tongue andjannier; 
I held the gate till you I met. 

Syne I began to wander : ' 
I tint my whistle and my sang, 

I tint my peace and pleasure ; 
But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing, 

Wad airt me to my treasure. 



HERE'S A BOTTLE AND AN HONEST FRIENI^L 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend, 

Wha wad ye wish for mair, man ? 
Wha kens, before his life may end. 

What his share may be o' care, man ? 



466 BUENS'S POETICAL W0EK3. 

Then catcli the moments as they fly, 
And use them as ye ought, man : — 

Believe me, happiness is shy, 
And comes na aye when sought, man. 



ON A PLOUGHMAN, 

As I was a-wand'ring ane morning in spring, 

I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing ; 

And as he was singing these words, he did say. 

There's na life hke the ploughman's in the month o sweet May, 

The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her nest, 

And mount to the air wi' the dew on her breast, 

And wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle and sing, 

And at night she'll return to her nest back again. 



THE WEARY FUND 0' TOW. 

Tune— T/ie Wear^/ Fund o' Tow, 
The weary pund, the weary pund, 

The weary pund o' tow ; 
I think my wife will end her life 

Before she spin her tow. 

I bought my wife a stane o* lint, 

As guid as e'er did grow ; 
And a' that she has made o* that, 

Is ane poor pund o' tow. 

There sat a bottle in a bole, 

Beyont the ingle lowe. 
And aye she took the tither souk, 

To di'ouk the stowrie tow. 

Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, 

Gae spin your tap o' tow ! 
She took the rock, and wi' a knock 

She brak it o'er my pow. 

At last her feet — I sang to see't — 
Gaed foremost o'er the knowe ; 

And 'ere I wad anither jad, 
I'll wallop in a tow. 



THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS 0' NITH, 
TuNB— ITp and waur them a\ 

The laddies by tlie banks o' Nith, 
Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, 

But he'll sair them as he sair'd the king, 
Turn tail and rin awa, Jamie. 



EPIGRAMS. 457 



Up and waur them a' Jamie, 

Up and waur them a' ; 
The Johnstones ha'e the guidiu* o't. 

Ye turncoat whigs, awa. 

The day he stude his country's friend. 
Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie, 

Or frae puir man a blessin' wan, 
That day the duke ne'er savv, Jamie. 

But wha is he, his country's boast ? 

Like him there is na twa, Jamie ; 
There's no callant tents the kye. 

But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. 

To end this wark, here's Whistlebirck, 
Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie ; 

And Maxwell true o' sterling blue, 
And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie. 



^^ipms, h. 



ON CAPTAIN GROSE, 

THE CELEBEATED ANTIQTJAKY. 

The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, 
So whip ! at the summons, old Satin came fl}^ng ; 
But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay moaning 
And saw each bed-post witli its burden a-groaning, 

Astonish'd, confounded, cried Satan, " By 

I'll want 'im, 'ere I take such a damnable load,' 



ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIllE 

Oh death, hadst thou hut spar'd liis life. 

Whom we this day lament. 
We freely wad exchang'd the wife, 

And a' been weel content. 

E'en as he is, cauld in his grafF, 

The swap we yet will do't ; 
Tak thou the carlin's carcase aff, 

Thou'se get the saul to boot. 



2p 



4(58 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

ANOTHER ON HIS WIDOW. 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell, 
When deprived of her husband she loved so well, 
In respect for the love and affection he show'd her, 
She reduc'd him to dust, and she drank off the powdw. 

But Queen Netherplace, of a different complexion, 
When call'd on to order the fnn'ral direction, 
Would have ate her dead lord, on a slender pretence, 
Not to show her respect, but — to save the expense I 



ON ELPHINSTONE'S 

TRANSLATIONS OF MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS. 

Oh thou, whom poesy abhors, 
Whom prose has turned out of doors, 
Heard'st thou that groan — proceed no further; 
'Twas laurelled Martial roaring murther ! 



ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. 

Oh ! had eaxih Scot of ancient times. 
Been Jeant Scott, as thou art, 
The bravest heart on English ground 
Had yielded like a coward. 



ON AN ILLITERATE GENTLEMAN, 

WHO HAD A FINE LIBEAEY. 

"^EEE through the leaves, ye maggots, make your windings : 
But for the owner's sake, oh spare the bindings ! 



WRITTEN 

UNDEE THE PICTUEE OP MISS BUENS. 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railings, 
Lovely Burns has charms — confess : 

True it is, she had one faihng — 
Had a woman ever less ? 



WRITTEN 

3N A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CAERON. 

We cam na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise ; 
But only, lest we gang to hell. 

It may be nae surprise : 

But whan we tirled at your door, 
Your porter dought na hear us ; 

Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, 
Your billy Satan sair us ! 



EPiaRAMS. 459 

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS 

IN THE INN AT MOFFAT, 

Ask why God made the gem so small, 

And why so huge the granite ? 
Because God meant mankind should set 

The higher vahie on it. 



FRAGMENT. 

Thou black-headed eagle 

As keen as a beagle, 
He hunted owre height and owre howe ; 

But fell in a trap 

On the braes of Gemappe, 
E'en let him come out as he dowe. 



ON INCIVILITY SHEWN HIM AT INVERNARY. 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, 

I pity much his case, 
Unless he come to wait upon 

The Lord their God, his Grace. 

There's naething-here but Highland pride, 

And Highland scab and hunger ; 
If Providence has sent me here, 

'Twas surely in His anger. 



HIGHLAND HOSPITALITY. 

When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 
A time that surely shall come, 

In Heaven itself I'll ask no more, 
Than just a Highland welcome. 



LINES ON MISS KEMBLE. 

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief. 
Of Moses and his rod ; .* 

At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 
The rock with tears had flow'd. 



ON THE KIRK AT LAMINGTON. 

A cauld day December blew, 
A cauld kirk, and in't but few ; 
A caulder minister never spak — 
They'll a' be warm 'ere I come back. 



460 BURNS S POETICAL WOEKS. 

THE SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT. 

The solemn League and Covenant 

Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tears : 

But it seal'd freedom's sacred cause — 
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. 



ON A CERTAIN PARSON'S LQ(DKS^ 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny ; 
They say their master is a knave— 

And sm-e they do not lie. 



ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF THE 
EARL OF * ^ * * *. 

What dost thou in that mansion fair ? — 

Flit, ^.^ ^ % and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

The picture of thy mind ! 



ON THE EARL OF ^ * * * 

No Stewart art thou, * ^ =3^ *, 
The Stewarts all were brave ; 

Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, 
Not one of them a knave. 



On tJie Same. 

Bright ran thy line, oh * * * * 
Thro' many a far-fam'd sire ! 

So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, 
So ended in a mire. 



On the Same. 

ON THE author BEING THREATENED WITH HIS 
VENGEANCE. 

Spare me thy vengeance, * * * *, 

In quiet let me live ; 
1 ask no kindness at thy hand, 

For thou hast none to give. 



ON AN EMPTY FELLOW, 

WHO IN COMPANY ENGROSSED THE CONVERSATION WITH 
AN ACCOUNT OF HIS GREAT CONNEXIONS. 

No more of your titled acquaintances boast. 
And what nobles and gentles you've seen ; 

An insect is still but an insect at most, 
Tho' it crawl on the curl of a Queen ! 



■EPIGRAMS. 461 

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS, 

On the occasion of a National Thanksgiving for a Naval 
Victory, 

Ye hj^ocrites ! are these your pranks ? — 
To murder men, and gi'e God thanks ! 
For shame ! gi'e o'er, proceed no further — 
God won't accept your thanks for murther ! 



THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES. 

Ye true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song, 

In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ; 

From envy and hatred your corps is exempt, 

But where is your shield from the darts of contempt ? 



INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. 

There's death in the cup — sae heware ! 

Nay more — there is danger in touching ; 
But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 

The man and his wine's so hevdtching ! 



EXTEMPORE ON MR. SYME. 

No more of your guests, he they titled or not> 
And cookery the first in the nation ; 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. SYME. 

WITH A PRESENT OP A. DOZEN OP PORTER 

Oh, had the malt thy strength of mind, 
Or hops the flavom* of thy wit, 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 



THE CREED OF POVERTY. 

In politics if thou "would'st mix, 
And mean thy fortunes be, 

Bear this in mind — ^be deaf and blind, 
Let great folk hear and see. 



WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK. 

Grant me, indulgent Heaven, that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give. 
Deal freedom's sacred treasures free as air, 
Till slave and despot be but things which were. 



BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

TO JOHN TAYLOR 

With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo weary flying, 
Through frosty hills the journey lay, 

On foot the way was plying. 

Poor slip-shod giddj'^ Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker, 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes. 

To get a frosty calker. 

Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 
Threw by his coat and bonnet. 

And did Sol's business in a crack ; 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster ; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod— 

I'll pay you like my master. 



TO MISS FONTENELLE. 

Sweet naivete of feature. 
Simple, wild, enchanting elf, 

Not to thee, but, thanks to Nature, 
Thou art acting but thyself. 

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, 
Spurning nature, torturing art ; 

Loves and graces all rejected. 
Then indeed thou'dst act a part. 



THE TOAST 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast — 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost ! 
That we lost, did I say ? nay, by Heaven, that we found ; 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you — the King ! 
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he sv.ing ; 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution j 
And longer with politics not to be cramm'd. 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be TjTanny damn'd ; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal. 
May his sou be a hangman, and he his first trial. 



EXCISEI^IAN UNIVERSAL. 

WEITTEN on a "WINDOW. 

■ Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 
'Gainst poor Excisemen ? give the cause a hearing : 



EPIGRAMS. 



463 



What are your landlords* rent-rolls ? teazing ledgers : 
"What premiers — what ? even monarchs' mighty gangers : 
Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men ? 
What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen ? 



TO DR. MAXWELL, 
oir MISS JESSY staig's kecovert. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave. 

That merit I deny — 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An angel could not die. 



ON JESSY LEWARS. 

Talk not to me of savages 

From Airic*s burning sun ; 
No savage e'er could rend my heart, 

As, Jessy, thou hast done. 
But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 

A mutual faith to plight. 
Not even to view the heavenly choir 

Would be so blest a sig>ht. 



Toast to the Same, 

Fill me with rosy wine, 
Call a toast — a toast divine ; 
Give the poet's darling flame. 
Lovely Jessy be the name ; 
Then thou may est freely boast 
Thou hast given a peerless toast. 



Epitaph on the Same. 

Sat, sages, what's the charm on earth 
Can turn death's dart aside ? 

It is not purity and worth, 
Else Jessy had not died. 

To the Same, 

But rarely seen since Nature's birth, 

The natives of the sky ; 
Yet still one seraph's left on earth, 
■ For Jessy did not die. 



GRACES BEFORE MEAT. 

Some ha'e meat, and canna eat, 
And some would eat that want it, 

But we ha'e meat, and we can eat, 
Sae let the Lord be thankit. 



4^4 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

Oh Thon, wlio kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless Thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And, if it please Thee, heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent : ^ 
But whether granted or denied, 

Lord, bless us with content I Amen ! 

Oh Thou, in whom we live and movfe, 

Who mad'st the sea and shore ; 
Thy goodness constantly we prove, 

And grateful would adore. 
And if it please Thee, Power above, 

Still grant us, with such store, 
The friend we trust, the fair we love, 

And we desire no more. 




ON THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 
Oh ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend . 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains 

The tender father, and the gen rous fnend. 
The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a toe ; ,, 

" For ev'n his faiUngs lean d to virtue » cide. 



ON A HENPECK'D COUNTRY SQUIRE. 

As father Adam was fool'd, 
A case that's still too common. 

Here lies a man a woman rul'd, 
Tlie devil rul'd the woman. 

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDEK. 

Heee souter Hood in death does sleep- 
To hell, if he's gane thither, 

Satan gi'e him the gear to keep 
He'll baud it wecl thosither 



( 



• EPITAPTIS. 

ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below these stanes lie Jamie*s banes ; 

Oh Death, it's my opiuioii 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



465 



ON WEE JOHNNY. 

HIC JACET WEE JOHNNY. 

Whoe'er thou art, oh reader, know, 
ThaJt' death has murder'd Johnny ! 

And her'e his body lies fa' low — 
For saul he ne'er had ony. 



ON JOHN DOVE, 

innkeeper, matjchline. 

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon ! 
What was his religion ? 

Wha e'er desires to ken, 
To some other warl' 
Maun follow the carl. 

For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane " 

Strong ale was ablution — 
Small beer, persecution, 

A dram was memento mori • 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the joy of his soul, 

And port was celestial glory. 



FOR ROBERT AIKIN, ESQ. 

Know thou, oh stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honoured name I 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest 
As e'er God with his image blest ! 
The friend of man the' friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth ; 

Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd ; 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



30 



iSQ BUKNS'S POETICAL WOEK?. 

FOR GAVIN HAMILTON. 

The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps. 
Whom canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be sav'd or damn'd ! 



ON WAT. 

Sic a reptile was Wat, 

Sic a miscreant slave, 
That the very worms damn'd him 

When laid in his grave. 
" In his flesh there's a famine," 

A starv'd reptile cries ; 
" And his heart is rank poison," 

Another repHes.. 



ON A SCHOOLMASTER, 

IN CLEISH PARISH, FIPESHIEE. 

Here lie Willie Michie's banes, 
Oh Satan, when ye tak 4iim, 

Gi'e him the schoolin' of j^our weans; 
For clever deils he'll mak 'em ! 



ON MR. W. CRUIOKSHANKS. 

Honest Will's to Heaven gane, 
And mony shall lament him ; 

His faults they a' in Latin lay, 
In Enghsh nane e'er kent them. 



FOR WILLIAM NICOL. 

Ye maggots feed on Nicol's brain, 
For few sic feasts you've gotten ; 

You've got a prize o' Willie's heart, 
For deil a bit ot's rotten. 



ON W . 

Stop thief ! dame Nature cried to Death, 
As Willie drew his latest breath ; 
You have my choicest model ta'en 
How shall I make a fool again ? 

On the Same. 

Rest gently, turf, upon his breast. 
His chicken heart's so tender ; — 
But rear huge castles on his head, 
His skull will prop them nnder. 



EFiTArris. 
ON GABKIEL RICHARDSON, 

BEEWEE, DIJMFEIES, 

Heee Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, 
And empty all his barrels ; 

He's blest — if as he brew'd he drink- 
In upright honest morals. 



467 



ON JOHN BUSHBY, 

WEITEE, DUMEEIES. 

Heee lies John Bushby, honest man I 
Cheat him, devil, if you can. 



ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER. 

Heee lies a rose, a budding rose, 

Blasted before its bloom ; 
Whose innocence did sweets disclose 

Beyond that flower's perfume. 

To those who for her loss are griev'd, 

This consolation's given — 
She's from this \rorld of woe relieved, 

And blooms a rose in Heaven. 



ON A PICTURE, 
eepeesenting Jacob's deeajm. 

Deae , I'll gi'e you some advice, 

You'U tak it no uncivil : 
You shouldna paint at angels mair. 

But try and paint the d — L 

To paint an angel's kittle wark, 
Wi' auld Nick there's less danger? 

luw'SJ easy draw a weel-kent face. 
But isx. «ae weel a stranger. 



^stts to t\t |fftms. 



Page 111. The Death of Poor Mailie. — According to Gilboit 
Burns, tliis poem may be dated anteriorly to 1784. The sub- 
joined is his account of the circumstance of which these lines 
are a faithful record : — ^* Robert had, partly by way of froHc, 
bought an ewe and two lambs from a neighbour, and she was 
tethered in a field adjoining the house at Lochlee. He and I 
were going out with our teams, and our two younger brothers 
to drive for us, at midday, when Hugh Wilson, (the Hucfhoc of 
the poem, who was a neighbouring farmer's herdmate,) a curi- 
ous-looking, awkward bo}^, clad in plaiding, came up to us, with 
much anxiety in his face, with the information that the ewe 
had entangled herself in the tether, and was lying in the ditch, 
llobert was much tickled with Hughoc's appearance and pos- 
tures on the occasion. Poor Mailie was set to rights, and when 
we returned from the plough in the evening, he repeated to me 
her death and dying words, pretty much in the way they now 
stand." 

Page 114. Epistle to Davie. — This Davie was Mr. David 
Sillar, of whom we have had occasion to speak as a brother 
rhymster of Burns. He was one of the intimates of the Batche- 
lor's Chib, at Tarbolton, to which he had been introduced in 
1788. In his subsequent career he became connected with the 
borough of Irvine, first as a teacher, and afterwards as a Bailie ; 
and he survived to the advanced age of seventy years. He died 
on the 2nd of May, 1830. 

Page 114. Is only hut to heg. The tolerated beggar was a 

species of travelling historian, traditionist, bard, or jester, ac- 
cording to the humour of his respective audiences, and lie was 
expected to earn the bounty of his hearers by entertaining them. 

Page 116. Ye ha'e your Meg. — Meg, or, more properly, Mar- 
garet Orr, of whom Burns speaks so familiarly,) was nurser}^- 
maid in the establishment of Mrs. Stewart, of Stair. In Sillar's 
visits to his Meg, he was not unfrequently accompanied by 
Burns, who would supply verses for the songs of other female 
servants ; some of these accidentally fell, in manuscript, into the 
hands of Mrs. Stewart, who was so struck with their beauty, 
that she desired that, upon his next visit, the author should be 
presented to her. He was accordingly introdu(;ed, and Mrs. 
Stewart is numbered amongst the first friends whom Burns's 
genius had secured amongst those of superior rank. 

Page 119. Lang syne, in Eden's happy yard. — The original 
manuscript affords the subjoined version of these lines : 

2q 



470 NOTES TO THE POEMS. 

Lang syne in Eden's happy scene, 
When strapping Adam's days were greeD| 
And Eve was like my bonnie Jean, 

My dearest part, 
A dancin' sweet, young, handsome quean, 

0' guileless heart. 

Page 122. Halloween. — The author's own notes have been 
appended to the references throughout this poem ; not but that 
the spells of this characteristic festival are now very generally 
understood. " It is thought to be a uight when all the super- 
human beings who people space, and earth, and air, in search of 
mischief, revel at midnight ; and it is also a grand anniversary 
of the more beneficent tribe of fairies, whose occupation is to 
baffle each evil genius in his wicked pursuit. R. B. 

Page 123. Their stocks maun a' be sought ance. — Tlie first 
ceremony of Halloween is, pulling each a stock or plant of kail. 
They must go out hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the 
first they meet with ; its being big or little, straight or crooked, 
is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their 
spells — the husband or wife. If any yb'd, or earth, stick to the 
root, that is tocher, or fortune ; and the taste of the custoc, or 
heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper or dispo- 
sition. Lastly, the stems, or, as they are called, the runts, are 
placed above the cornice of the door ; and the Christian names 
of those whom chance brings into the house, are, according to 
the order in which the runts were placed, the names in question. 
Page 123. Andpou their stalks o' corn. — They go to the barn- 
yard, and pull each, at three several times, a stalk of oats. If 
the third stalk wants a top pickle, or grain at the top of the 
stalk, the lady will be wedded, but not a maid. R. B. 

Page 123. When kuittling in the fause-house. — Wlien the 
corn is in a doubtful state, b\' being too green, or wet, the stack- 
builder, by means of old timber, &c., makes a large apartment 
in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed 
to the wind ; this he calls a fause-house. 

Page 123, The auld guidwifes well-hoordet nits. — Burning 
the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and lass to 
each particular nut, as they laj^ them in the fire, and accordingly 
as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, 
the course and issue of the courtship will be. R. B. 

Page 12A. And in the blue-clue throtvs then. — ^Whoever 
would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these 
directions : — Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, throw 
into the pot a clue of blue yarn ; wind it in a clue off the old one, 
and, towards the latter end, something will hold the thread ; 
demand " Wha bauds ? " that is, who holds ? An answer will 
be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and 
surname of your future spouse. R. B. 

Page 124. I'll eat the apple at the glass. — Take a candle, and 
go alone to a looking-glass ; eat an apple before it, and some 
traditions say, you should comb your hair all the time ; the face 
of your conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as 
peeping over your shoulder. 



KOTES TO THE POEMS. 471 

Page 125, He gat hemp-seed, I mind it weeL — Steal out, 
unperceived, and sow a handful of hempseed, harrowing it \\\\\x 
anj'thing you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, ikjw 
and then, " Hemp-seed I saw thee ; hemp-seed I saw thee ; a,.<l 
him (or her) that is to be my true love, come after me and y-Kyx 
thee." Look over your left shoulder, and you will sec tiie 
appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of puliing 
hemp. Some traditions say, " Come after me, and shaw th(y.%" 
that is, show thyself: in which case it simply appears. R. 1>. 

Page 126. Meg fain wad to the ham hae gaeiu — This charm 
must likewise be performed unperceived and alone. You go to 
the barn, and open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if 
possible ; for there is danger that the being about to appear maj' 
shut the dooi*s and do you some mischief. Then take that instru-. 
ment used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, 
we call a wecht, and go through aU the attitudes of letting dowa 
corn against the wind. Repeat it three times, and the third 
time an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy 
door and out at the other, having both the figure in question, 
and tlie appearance or retinue, marking the employment or sta- 
tion in Hfe. R. B, 

Page 126. It chanced the stack hefaddoiTCt thrice, — Take an 
opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a bean-stack, and fathom it 
three times round. The last fathom of the last time you will 
catch i\\ your arms the appearance of your ftiture conjugal yoke 
feUow. R. B. 

Page 126. Where three lairds' lands met at a burn, — You go 
out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south-running 
spring or rivulet, v/here " three lairds' lands meet," and dip 
your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang 
your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake : and some time 
near midnight an apparition, having the exact figure of the 
grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to 
Avy the other side of it. R. B. 

Page 127. The luggies three are rang'd, — ^Take three dishes ; 
put clean water in one, foul water in another, leave the third 
empty : bhndfold a person, and lead him to the hearth where 
the dishes are ranged. He (or she) dips the left hand — if by 
chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come 
to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow ; if in 
the empty djsh, it fortells with equal certainty no marriage at 
all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement 
of the dishes is altered. R. B. 

Page 127. Fu' hlythe that night. — Burns has omitted, 
amongst the other ceremonies of Halloween, that of ducking 
for apples in tubs of water. Few of those of which the poet has 
furnished particulars are now observed. The lottery of dishes, 
the puUing kail stalks, and the ducking for apples, comprising 
the whole, or nearly the whole, of the frolicsome enchantments 
now in common observance. 

Papje 138. Death and Dr, Hornbook. — Hornbook's career 
seems to have borne out his claim to some more elevated occu- 
pation than the ownership of a shop of all wares, the duties ot 



472 N0TE3 TO THE POEM-S. 

an obscure dispenser, or those of a wretched parish schoolmaster. 
Such were his occupations at Tarboltou, where first he was 
engaged as a teacher. He subsequently stocked a small store of 
grocery and general wares, to wliich, after some poring over 
medical l^ooks, he also added the drugs in more ordinary demand. 
This last acquisition was of the more consequence, as there was 
no medical man in the place ; and Hornbook having started up 
into a medical authority, pompously paraded his knowledge and 
skill at a Mason meeting at Tarbolton, in the presence of liurnsj 
and thus suggested this poem. Hornbook subsequently settled 
in Glasgow, and outlived the poet nearly half a century. 

Page 139. A^id toddliri down on Willies Jlill. — Willie's Mill 
was the name of a mill just out of the village of Tarbolton, on 
the road to Mossgiel, and on a small stream called the Faile. 
It was occupied by Mr. WilHam Muir, an intimate friend of the 
Bnrns's, and one of the subscribers to the tirst Edinburgh edition 
of Eobert's poems. 

Page 154. The Jolly Beggars. — The authenticity of this poem 
has been very erroneously doubted. It was written by Burns 
in 1785, but was not pubhshed in his own editions, probably 
because he had retained no copy of it, clearly not that he thought 
it unworthy of him. In 1801, this piece appeared in a small 
volume, pubhshed at Glasgow, by Messrs. Brash and Reid, 
under the unpretendfng title oiFoems asci^ibed to Eohert Burns. 
All the more recent authorities have been convinced of its au- 
thenticity, which, in fact, appears to be incontestibly established 
by its style ; and Mr. Chambers has furnished some particulars 
respecting the incident to which it is attributable. The follow- 
ing is the anecdote : — 

" It is understood to have been founded on the poet's observa- 
tion of an actual scene which one night met his eye, when, in 
company \vith his friends John Richmond and James Smith, 
he dropped accidentally, at a late hour, into a very humble hos- 
telry in r>Iauchline, the landlady of which was a Mrs. Gibson, 
more familiarly named Poosie l^ancy. After witnessing much 
jollity amongst a company who, by day, appeared abroad as 
miserable l^cggars, the three young men came away. Burns pro- 
fessing to have been grcatlj^ delighted with the scene, but more 
particularly with the gleesome behaviour of an old maimed sol- 
cher. In the couree of a few days he iTcital a part of the poem 
to Richmond, who has informed the present Editor, that, to the 
best of his recollection, it contained, in its original complete 
form, songs by a sweep and a sailor, which do not now appear. 
The landlady of the house was mother to Racer Jess, alluded to 
in the Holy Fair, and her house was at the left hand side of the 
opening of the Cowgate, mentioned in the same poem, and oppo- 
site to the church. An account of the house, and the characters 
who frequented it, and the scenes which used to take place in it, 
is given in Chambers's Edinhnrgh Journa^l, No. 2. A litho- 
graphic fac-simile or the original manuscript of the Jolly Beg- 
gars has been published." 
^ Sir Walter Scott, with some taint of a prudery, which occa- 
sionally exposed him to the charge of affectation, has, however 



NOTES TO THE POE:iIS. 473 

been liberal enough in his remarks en this poem, to attach a 
defence to his own censure. Subjoined is his own criticism 
totidem verbis : — 

" In one or two passages of the Jolly Beggars^ the muse has 
slightly trespassed on decorum, where, in tlie language of Scot- 
tish song, 

* High kilted was she, 
As she gaed owre the lea.' 
Something, however, is to Ije allowed to the nature of the sub- 
ject, and something to the education of the poet : and if from 
veneration to the names of Swift and Dryden, we tolerate the 
grossncss of the one and the indelicacy of the other, the respect 
due to that of Burns may surely claim indulgence for a few 
light strokes of broad humour." 

Page 154. Just like an aumos dish. — An allusion to the large 
wooden dish or platter, carried by mendicants in Scotland, to 
receive broken food. 

Page 161, Ma7i was made to mourn. — ^Several of the poems 
were produced for the purpose of bringing forward some favorite 
sentiment of the author. He used to remark to me, that he 
could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human 
life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind 
how this sentiment might be brought forv/ard, the Elegy, Man 
was made to 3Iourn, was composed. — Gilbeet Buen s. 

Page 163. To a Mouse. — This exquisite poem was actually 
composed at the plough tail, and suggested by an incident 
which occm-red to the poet whilst at work. Bm*ns was hand- 
ling the plough, and John Blane, one of the farm servants, (who 
many years since remembered the incident,) was di-iving, at the 
same time holding in his hand the pattle, or pettle, (a small 
wooden spud with which the ploughshare was scraped at the 
commencement of every fresh furrow,) when suddenly a mouse 
started from the furrow, and was running across the lield closely 
pursued by Blane, pattle in hand, who had started in chase. 
Burns, however, called his driver back, and very calmly asked 
him " Wlmt hm-t the mouse had done him, that he should wish 
to kill it." Prom that moment Burns remained moody and 
silent during the rest of the day, and woke Blane at night (for 
.they were bedfellows,) to repeat to him the lines which the inci- 
dent of the day had suggested. 

Page 164 The curlers quat their roaring play. — Curling is 
a very boisterous game, played on the ice, when sufficiently 
strong, and which consists in the trundling of flattened, smooth 
round stones. The players are divided into sides. 

Page 164. Ben i' the spence. — The parlom* of the farm-houso 
at Mossgiel, namely, the only apartment besides the kitchen. 
This little apartment still exists in the state in which it was 
when the poet described it as the scene of his vision of Coila. 
" Though in every respect humble, and partly occupied by lixed 
beds, it does not appear uncomfortable. Every consideration, 
however, sinks beneath the one intense feeling, .that here, within 
these four walls, warmed at this httlo fireplace, and Hghted by 
this little window, (it has but one.) lived one of the most extra- 

2a3 



474 KOTES TO THE POEMS. 

ordinarj^ men ; here wrote some of the most celebrated poems of 
liiotlern times. — Chambers's Journal, No. 93. 

Page 166. His country's saviour. — Alluding to the great 
Willic^m Wallace, the hero of Scottish independence. 

Page 166. The chief on Sark, who glorious fell. — The Laird 
of Craigie, also, of the family of Wallace, who held the second 
command at the battle fought in 1448, on the banks of Sark, 
and gained by the Scottish troops, under Douglas, Earl of 
Ormond, and Wallace, Laird of Craigie ; and in which the des- 
perate valour, and masterly skill of the latter, were chiefly in- 
strumental in securing the victory. The Laird of Craigie was 
mortally wounded in the engagement. 

Page 170. The Author's earnest cry and prayer. — Towards 
the close of the year 1785, loud complaints were made by the 
Scottish distillers respecting the vexations and oppressive man- 
ner in which the Excise laws were enforced at their establish- 
ments — such rigour, they said, being exercised at the instigation 
of the London distillers, who looked with jealousy on the success 
of their northern brethren. So great was the severity of the 
Excise, that many distillers were obliged to abandon the trade, 
and the price of barley was beginning to be affected. Illicit 
distillation was also found to be alarmingly on the increase. In 
consequence of the earnest rem.onstrances of the distillers, backed 
by the county gentlemen, an act was passed in the session ol- 
1786, (alluded to by the Author,) whereby the duties on low 
wines, spirits, &c., were discontinued, and an annual tax imposed 
on stills, according to their capacity. This act gave general satis- 
faction. It seems to have been during the general outcry 
against fiscal oppression, at the end of 1785, or beginning of I 

1786, that the poem was composed. j 

Page 171. Orffah like Boswell. — James Boswell, well known j 

to the party politicians of Ayrshire, as one of the orators at their [ 

meetings, but better known to the world at large as the shadow 
and biographer of Dr. Johnson. j 

Page 173. And drink his health in fild Nanse Tinnock^s. — | 

A worthy old hostess of the Author's in Mauchline, where he [ 

sometimes studied politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch f 

drink. Nanse's story was different. On seeing the poem, she | 

declared that the poet had never been but once or twice in her j 

house. i 

Page 175. Aft clad in massy siller weed. — The vulgar name 
of beer having been repudiated, and the more refined cognomen 
of " ale " being substituted for such decoctions of malt as grace 
the tables of the great in sQver tankards. 

Page 177. Thee, Ferintosh, oh sadly lost. — The Scottish Par- 
liament passed an Act, in the year 1690, empowering Forbes of 
Colloden to distil whisky free of duty, on his manor of Ferin- 
tosh, of Cromartyshire, in consideration of his services, and of 
thelovsses wiiich he had sustained in the public service at the 
period of the lievolution. The immense wealth to which such 
jin immunity opened the way, gradually stimulated the succes- 
sors of the Forbes to the distillation of so immense a quantity 
^" the spirit, that by degrees Ferintosh became a bye-wor<il 



IfOTES TO THE POEMS. * 475 

BignifyiDg wliisky. This privilege was aboHsbecl by the Act of 
the iSntishlarhament, passed in 1785, and which regulated the 
fecotch distilleries in general. But a provision was reserved in 
that Act to the effect, that the Lords of the Treasury. should 
■indemmtj tne present proprietor of the barony for the immenso 
deterioraaon of his estate, and that if the Lords of the Treasury 
shoulQ fail to settle the^matter fairly, it should be submitted to 
ajury in the Scottish Ck)urt of Exchequer. Accordingly after 
tutile attempts at redress from the Treasury, Mr. Duncan Forbes 
prosecuted Ins claim, proving that the right had actuaUy pro- 
duced £1,000 a-year to his family, and might have been produc- 
tive of seven times as much; and the jury awarded him the 
substaiitial sum ot £21,580 as compensation, on the 29th of 
JNovember, 1785. 

^^^^.}^^A ^''^^^^^^^ io Bohert AiJcen, Ksq.—Mr. Aiken was 
one ot the first persons moving in tlie higher orders of societv 
who noticed the remarkable talents of Robert Burns, and whose 
patronage and countenance upheld the poet, and promoted the 
success of his subsequently brilliant <>areer. He was somewhat 
^istmguished amongst his professional colleagues (beino- a 
lawyer,) for the superior inteUectual qualifications which he 
possessed, and amongst his friends for the unafi^octed irenerositv 
ot his character. " '^ 

Page 188. I lancf ha'e thought, my ^outhfiC friend.— ThQ 
triend to vrhom this poem is addressed, was Mr. Andrew Aiken 
the son of Mr. Aiken, of Ayr, to whom the Cotter's Satnrdav 
:^tghtis dedicated, and who had been taught bv iiis father to • 
venerate tho genius and character of his lowly but illustnous 
fello^-countr>Tnan. Mr. Andrew Aiken survived fifty years 
after Burns, and died at St. Petersburgh, after a very successful 
mereantilo career into which ho had early embarked at Liverpool. 

1 age 190. Expect na, Sir, in this narration.— The ^v<^ 
person of respectable rank and good education wlio took anV 
Eotice of Burns, was Mr. Gavin Hamilton, writer, in Mauchhne. 
from whom he took his farm of Mossgiel on a sub-lpase M? 

^^^r'Y\ Y'''^ '''. ^^^'^^ ^' ^'^^^^ ^^-^e Castle of Mauchline' a half 
tortihed old mansion near the church, forming the only remains 

^L.^- ^fT^ P'"''''^- ?^ ^^^^ ^^""^ '^^^ <^f ^ gentleman who had 
practised the same profession in the same place, ard was in 
overy respect a most astimable member of soc-iety-crenerous 
affable, and humane. Unfortunately, his religious prpctice did 
not squaro with the notions of the then minister of J^Iauchline' 
t' 2i V^^^ ^f Burns, who, in 1785, is found in tlie sessfon 
I'ecords to have summoned him for rebuke onthefour foUowino- 
fU^t'^f T^T'^^'^''^';^^'"^^ ^^'^'^^ ^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^ five consecu! 
tive Sundays (apparently the result of some dispute about a 
poors rate); 2. Setting out on a journey to Carrick on a S^" 
day; 3. Habitual, if not total, negloct offomily worship- 4 
\\ritmg an abusive etter to the Session, in reference to some of 
their former proceedings respecting him. Strange though tHs 
prosecution may seem, it was strictly accordant with the rioh 
assumed by the Scottish clergy at that period, to enquTre fito 
-the private habits of parishioners: and a. it is mTZsTy 



473 KOTES TO THE POEMS. 

allowed that Mr. Anld's designs in the matter were pnreTy 
religious, it is impossible to speak of it disrespectfully. It was, 
however, unfortunately mixed up with some personal motives 
in the members of the Session, which were so appai-ent to the 
Presb'ytei'y, to which Mr. Hamilton appealed, that the reverend 
body ordered the proceedings to be stopped, and all notice of 
them expmiged from the records. A description of the suffer* 
ings of the Mauchline Session, while orator Aiken was exposiiig 
them before the Presbytery, is to be found in Holy Willie s 
Frailer. Partly from antipathy to the high oi-thcdox party, 
hut more from friendship foa* Mr. Hamilton, whom he regarded 
as a worthy and enlightened man, persecuted by narrow-wittcd 
Ingots, Burns threw his parti zan muse into the quarrel, and 
produced several poems, that just mentioned amongst the rest, 
in which it is but too apparent that religion itself suffers in 
common with those whom he holds up as abusing it. 

Page 196. The Twa Do^qs.— The tale of the Ttaa I>ogs was 
composed after the resolution of publishing was nearly taken. 
Eobert had a dog, which he called Luath, that was a great 
favorite. The dog had been killed by the wanton cruelty ojf 
some person, the night before my father's death. Robert said 
to me that he should like to confer such an immortality as he 
could bestow on his own friend Luath, and that he had a great 
mind to introduce something into the book under the title of 
Stanzas to the Memory of a Quadruped Friend ; but this plan 
was given up for the poem as it now stands. Caesar was merely 
tlie creature of the poet's imagination, created for the purpose 
of holchng chat with his favorite Luath." — Gilbert Burns. 
Allan Ciinningham mentions, that John Wilson, printer, Kil- 
marnock, on undertaking the first edition of the Poems, sug- 
j^ested the propriety of placing a piece of a grave nature at tlie 
beginning, and that Bums, acting on the hint, composed or 
completed the Twa Dogs in walking home to Mossgiel. Its 
exact date is fixed at February-, 1786, by a letter of the Poet to 
John Richmond. 

Page 202. The Lament.— In the early part of 1786, when the 
friends of his Jean forced her to break the nuptial engagement 
into which he had clandestinely entered with her, and took legal 
steps to force him to find security for the maintenance of her 
expected offspring — in this dismal time, when nothing but ruin 
seemed before him — our bard poured forth, as in the name of 
another, the following eloquent effusion of indignation and 
grief. 

Page 204. Aitd own Sis work indeed divine. — Allusion is 
here made to Miss Eliza Burnet, the beauty of her day in 
Edinburgh, daughter of the eccentric scholar and philosopher, 
Lord Monboddo. Burns was several times entertained by his 
lordship at his house in St. John-street, Canongate, where the 
lady resided. He speaks of her in a letter in the following 
terms : — " There has not been a7iything nearly like her in all 
the combinations of beaut}', grace, and goodness, the Great 
Creator has forme^l, since Milton's Eve on the tirst day of her 
tjcistence." It may be curious t-o learn what was thought of 



NOTES TO THE POEMS. 477 

this lovely woman by a man of a very different sort fi-ora 
Burns — namely, Hup^h Chisholm, one of the seven broken men 
(usually called robbers) who kept Prince Charles in their cave 
in Inverness-shire for several weeks during his hidings, resisting 
the temptation of thirty thousand pounds to give him up. This 
man, when far advanced in life, was brought on a visit to 
Edinburgh, where it was remarked he would never allow any 
one to shake his right hand, that member having been rendered 
sacred, in his estimation, by the grasp of the Prince. Being 
taken to sup at Lord Monboddo's, old Hugh sat most of the 
time gazing abstractedly on Miss Burnet, and being asked after- 
wards what he thought of her, he exclaimed, in a burst of his 
eloquent native tongue, which can be but poorly rendered in 
English, " She is the finest animal I ever beheld." Yet an 
enviously minute inquirer, in the letter-press accompanying the 
reprint of Kays Portraits, states that she had one blemish, 
though one not apt to be observed — had teeth. She died in 1790, 
of consumption, at the age of twenty-five, and the poet wrote 
an elegy upon her. — Chambers. 

Page 206. And Wallace Tower had sworn the fact teas true.—' 
The ancient Wallace Tower, which fell into a dangerous state 
of repair, was ultimately pulled down, and replaced by a new 
tower, which is still known by the same name. The Old 
Wallace Tower was an incongruous building, partaking of the 
rude commixture of several styles of architecture, and from it 
rose a slender spire, which, though by no means in exact keeping 
vv'ith the basement, certainly contributed to the picturesque 
aspect of the building. The new tower stands upon the same 
foundation in the High-street of Ayr. 

Page 206. Swijl as the gos drive on the wheeling hare. — The 
falcon, or as it is commonly called, the Gos-hawk. The imagery 
of this passage is as beautiful as the expression. 

Page 307. Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source. — 
Generall}^ as the rapid enlightenment of the Scottish people 
has dispelled the superstitions which were wont to hang about 
some localities, even to the charm and poetical imagery with 
which such superstitions served at times to invest them, the 
spirits of Garpal Water are yet acknowledged to retain their 
supremacy, and the spot is as firmly believed to be haunted, by 
many of the peasants, as it was of old. 

Page 209. Next followed Courage with his martial stride.-^ 
A complimentary allusion to Captain Hugh Montgomery, 
otherwise called Sodger Sugh by Burns, (who subsequently 
succeeded to the Earldom of Eglinton), and whose family seat 
of Coilsneld is situated on the Faile, or Feal, a small stream 
which falls into the river Ayr, at no great distance. 

Page 209. A female form came from the towers of St air. ^ 
In the foregoing notes, on the Epistle to Davie, the intro- 
duction of Burns to Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, has been detailed. 
The present passage is a complimentary allusion to the same lady. 

Page 213. A Tale. — "I look on Tarn o' Shanter as my 
standard performance in the poetical line." — Burns. 



478 NOTES XU THE POE.AIS. 

" AVlien my fatlior fewed his little propert}^ near Alio way Kirk, 
the wall of the churchyard had gone to ruin, and cattle had free 
liberty of pasture in it. M}' father and two or three neighbours 
joined in an application to the town-council of Ayr, who were 
superiors of the adjoining land, for liberty to rebuild it, and 
raised by subscription a sum for enclosing this ancient cemetery 
with a wall : hence he came to consider it as his burial-place, 
and we learned that reverence for it people generall}' have for 
the burial-place of tlieir ancestors. My brother was living in 
Ellisland, when Captain Grose, on his perigrinations through 
Scotland, staid some time at Carse-house in the neighbourhood, 
with Captain Robert Riddel, of Gleniiddel, a particular friend 
of mj^ brother's. The antiquary and the poet were ' unco pack 
and thick thegither.' Robert requested of Captain Grose, when 
he should come to Ayrshire, that he would make a di'awing of 
Alloway Kirk, as it was the burial-place of his father, where he 
himself had a sort of claim to lay down his bones when they 
should be no longer serviceable to him : and added, by way of 
encom'agement, that it was the scene of manj^ a good story of 
witches and apparations, of w^hich he knew the captain was 
very fond. The captain agreed to the request, provided the poet 
would furnish a witch story, to be printed along with it. ' Tarn 
o' Shanter' was produced on this occasion, and was first pub- 
lished in 'Grose's Antiquities of Scotland.'" — Gilbeet Buens. 

It was while spending his nineteenth summer in the parish 
of Kirkoswold, in Carrick, that the poet became acquainted with 
the characters and circumstances afterwards introduced into 
Tam o' Shanter. The hero was an honest farmer, named 
Douglas Graham, who lived at Shanter, between Turnberry and 
Colzean. His wife, Helen M'Taggart, was much addicted to 
superstitious beliefs. Graham, dealing much in malt, went to 
Ayr every market day, whither he was frequently accomiwuitnl 
by a shoemaking neighbour, John Davidson, who dealt a little 
in leather. The two would often linger to a late hour in the 
taverns at the market town. One night, when riding home 
more than usuallj^ late by himself, in a storm of wind and rain, 
Graham, in passing over Brown Carrick Hill, near the Bridge 
of Doon, lost his bonnet, which contained the money he had 
drawn that day at the market. To avoid the scolding of liis 
wife, he imposed upon her creduht}'^ with a story of witches seen 
at Alloway Kirk, but did not the less return to the Carrick Hill, 
to seek for his money, which he had the satisfaction ' to iind, 
with his bonnet, in a plantation near the road. Burns, hearing 
Graham's story told between jest and earnest among the smug- 
glers of the Carrick shore, retained it in his memory, till, at a 
comparatively late period of his career, he wove from it one of 
the most admired of his poems. Douglas Graham and John 
Davidson, the originals of Tam o' Shanter and Souter Johimie, 
have long reposed in the churchyard of Kirkoswold, where tiie 
former had a handsome moimment, bearing a very pious inscrip- 
tion. — Chambers. 

Page 217. And win the Tceij-stane o the hri(j. — It is well 
known that witches, or any other evil spirits, have no power to 



NOTES TO THE POEMS. 479 

follow a poor wjght anj'^ farther than the middle of the nearest 
running stream. And, at the same time, it may not be super- 
fluous to hint to the benighted traveller, that when he ig 
unfortunate enough to fall in with the wierd sisters, or with 
bogies, on his road, — whatevei' be tlie danger of going forward, 
it is far less than that of retreat. — Burns. 

Page 217. Tragic Fragment.^-'^ In my early years nothing 
less would serve me than courting the tragic muse. I was, 1 
think, about eighteen or nineteen when I sketched the outhnes 
of a tragedy, forsooth : but the bursting of a cloud of family 
misfortunes, which had for sometime threatened us, prevented 
my farther progress. In those days I never wrote down any- 
thing ; so, except a speech or two, the whole has escaped my 
memory. These hues, which I most distinctly remember, were 
the exclamation from a gi-eat character — great in occasional 
instances of generosity and daring at times in villanies. He is 
supposed to meet with a child of misery, and to bui-st out into 
this rhapsody," — Buens. 

Page 218. Winter, a Dirge. — " There is scarcely any earthly 
object gives me more — I do not know if I should call it plea- 
sure — but something which exalts me — something which 
enraptures me — than to walk on the sheltered side of a wood 
or plantation, in a cloudy winter's day, and hear the stormy 
wind howling amongst the trees, and raving over the plain. It 
is my best season of devotion ; my mind is rapt in a kind of 
enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous language of the He- 
brew bard, " Walks on the wings of the wind." In one of these 
seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, I composed Winter, a 
Dirge. — Burns. According to Gilbert Burns, this is one of 
Burns's earliest pieces, and he has assigned 1784 as its date. 

Page 218. JPrayer under the pressure of Violent Anguish. — 
" There was a period of my life that my spirit was well nigh 
Droken by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened, and 
indeed effected, the utter ruin of my fortune. My body, too, 
was attacked by that most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria, 
or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched state, the recollec- 
tion of which makes me shudder, I hung my harp on the willow 
trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of which I composed 
these lines." — Burns. 

Page 221. The Twa Herds. — " At the time when Burns was 
beginning to exercise his powers as a poet, theological controversy 
raged amongst the clergy and laity of his native country. The 
prominent points related to the doctrines of Original Sin and the 
Trinity ; a scarcely subordinate one referred to the right of 
patronage. Burns took the moderate and liberal side, and seems 
to have delighted in doing all he could to torment the zealous 
party, who were designated the Auld Lights. The first of his 
poetic offspring that saw the Kght was a burlesque lamentation 
on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, which he circulated 
anonymously, and which, "with a certain description of the 
clergy, as well as laity, met with roars of applause. This was 
the Twa Herds, The heroes of the piece were the Kev. Alex- 
ander Moodie, minister of Riccarton, and the Rev. John Russell, 



480 NOTES TO THE POEMS. 

minister of a chapel of ease, at Kilmarnock, both of them 
eminent as leaders of the Auld Light party. In riding home 
togetlier they got into a warm dispute regarding some point of 
doctrine, or of discipline, which led to a rupture that appeared 
nearly incurable. They anpear to have afterwards quarrelled 
about a question of pansh boundaries ; and when the point was 
debated in the Presbytery of Irvine, in presence of a great mul- 
titude of the people (including Burns), they lost temper entirely 
and " abused each other," says Mr. Lockhart, '"' with a fierj- 
vehemence of personal invective such as has been long banished 
from ^11 poprOar assemblies, wherein the laws of coui*tesj^ are 
enforced by those of a certain unwritten code." AUan Cunning- 
ham gives a popular story of this quarrel having ultimately 
come to blows ; but if such had been the case, the poet would 
certainly have adverted to it : — Chambeks. 

Page 226. ITour dreams and tricks. — "A certain humorous 
dream of his was then making some noise in the country side." 
— Burns. Mr. Cunningham gives the following account of 
the dream — " Lord K., it is said, was in the practice of calling 
all his famiHar acquaintances brutes. ' Well, ye bnite, how are 
ye to day ? ' was his usual mode of salutation. Once, in com- 
pany, his lordship, having indulged in this rudeness more than his 
wont, tm-ned to Rankine and exclaimed, * Brute, are ye dumb ? 
have ye no queer sly story to tell us ? ' 'I have nae storj%' 
said Rankine; *but last night I had an odd dream.' * Out with 
it, bj' all means,' said the other. ' Aweel, ye see,' said Rankine, 

* I di'eamed I was dead, and that for keeping other than gude 
company on earth, I was sent down stairs. Wlien I knocked at 
the low door, wha should open it but the deil ; he was in a rough 
humour, and said, ' Wha may ye be, and what's your name ? ' 

* ]My name,' quoth I, * is John Rankine, and my dweUing-place 
was Adam-hill.' 'Gae wa' wi' ye,' quoth Satan, *ye canna be 
here ; ye're ane o' Lord K.'s brutes — hell's fou o' them already.'" 
This sharp rebuke, it is said, poHshed for the futm-e his lordship's 
speech. 

Page 227. Andfilled them fou. — Some occurrence is evidently 
here alluded to. We have heard the following account of it, 
but cannot vouch for its correctness : — A noted zealot of the 
opposite party (the name of Holy Willie has been mentioned, 
but more probably, from the context, the individual must have 
been a clergyman), caUing on Mr. Rankine on business, the latter 
invited him to take a glass. With much entreaty the visitor 
was prevailed on to make a very small modicum of toddy. The 
stranger remarking that the liquor proved very strong, Mr. 
Rankine pointed out, as any other landlord would have done, 
that a little more hot water might improve it. The kettle was 
accordingly resorted to, but still the liquor appeared over-potent. 
Again he filled up. StiU no diminution of strength. AH this 
time he was sipping and sipping. By and bye the liquor began 
to appear only too weak. To cut short a tale, the reluctant 
guest ended by tumbling dead drunk on the floor. Tlie trick 
pl^ed upon him requires, of course, noexplanation — CnAMUEiis. 

Page 231. The American War. — All the allusions contained 



NOTES TO THE POEMS. 4j81 

in this poem are of sucli a nature and refer to ancli public events 
as ^dll be readily understood : and there is something exceed- 
ingly humorous in the exposition of the views and remarks of 
the peasantry respecting the great leaders, or great events, which 
happen to become matters of notoriety. 

Page 235. To a Louse. — An incident which actually occuiTcd, 
and which was witnessed by Burns, at Mauchline, in December, 
1785. 

Page 235. But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie ! — The fashions in 
those days, as in these, were apt to receive denominations from 
persons or events which had created general sensation. In our 
time we have our Kossuth, or Klapka hats and the hke. Lunardi 
had made several balloon ascents during the summer of 1785, in 
Scotland, and as these excited much interest at the time, Lu- 
nardi's name was suivant les regies, appended to various articles 
of dress, and to bonnets amongst others. 

Page 239. Willie Chalmers. — A writer in Aj'r, and a parti- 
cular friend of the poet, Mr. Chalmers, asked Burns to v/rite a 
poetic epistle in his behalf to a young lady whom he admired. 
Burns, who had seen the lady, but was scarcely acquainted with 
her, complied by penning the above. 

Page 240. lAnes written on a BdnTc-lS'ote. — " These verses, 
in the handwriting of Burns, are copied from a bank-note, in the 
possession of Mr. F. Gracie, of Dumfi-ies. The note is of the 
Bank of Scotland, and is dated so far back as 1st March, 1780. 
The hues exhibit the strong marks of the poet's vigorous pen, 
and are evidently an extempore effusion of his characteristic 
feehngs. They bear internal proof of having been wTitten at 
that interesting period of his life, when he was on the point of 
leaving the country on account of the unfavourable manner in 
which his proposals for marrying his ' bonny Jean ' (his futm-e 
wife), were at first received by her parents." — Motherwell. 

Page 240. To a Kiss. — Thefe is some doubt as to the authen- 
ticity of these pretty lines. It has been averred upon very good 
authority that the manuscript, in the handwriting of Kobert 

Bums, is yet extant, and in the possession of Mr. A . 

At any rate, as the verses are not unworthy of the bard of Ayr, 
they may be accepted. They were first pubHshed at Liverpool, 
in a periodical called the Kaleidoscope. 

Pago 241. Verses written under Violent Grief. — These verses 
appear to have been written in the distressing summer of 1786, 
when the poet's prospects were at the dreariest, and the very 
wife of his fondest affections had forsaken him. From the time, 
and other circumstances, we may conjecture that the present 
alluded to was a copy of the Kilmarnock edition of the poems, 
then newdy published. The verses appeared in the Sun news- 
paper, April, 1823. — Chambers. 

Page 241. Verses left in tJie room where he slept. — " The first 
time Kobert heard the spin net played upon was at the house 
of Dr. Laurie, minister of Loudon, (about October, 1786). Dr. L. 
hadseveral daughters — oneof them playedj the father and mother 
led down the dance ; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet, 
and the other guests, mixed in it. It was a delightful family 
31 2r 



482 NOTES TO TUE POEMS. 

scene for our poet, then lately introduced to the world. His 
mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas were 
lett in the room where he slept." — Gilbert Burns. Dr. 
Laurie was the medium through which Dr. Blacklock trans- 
mitted the letter, by which Burns was arrested on his flight to 
the West Indies, and induced to go to Edinburgh. This letter 
has since been in the possession of the Rev. Mr. Halfour Graham, 
minister of North Berwick, who is connected with the family ])y 
marriage. Dr. Laurie, and his son, who was his successor in 
the pastoral charge of the parish, are both decea.sed. 

Page 244, Epistle to Major Logan. — Major Logan, a retired 
miUtary officer, still remembered in Ayrshire for his wit and 
humour — of which two si)ecimens may be given. Asked by an 
Ayr hostess if he would have the water to the glass of spirits 
she was bringing to him on his order, he said, with a grin, " No, 
I would rather you took the water out o't." Visited on his 
deathbed by Mr. Cuthill, one of the ministers of Ayr, who 
remarked that it would take fortitude to support such sufferings 
as he was visited with ; " Aye," said the poor wit, " it would 
takejifiitude.^' At the time when the above letter was addressed 
to him. Major Logan lived at Parkhouse, in Ayrshire, with his 
mother and sister, the Miss Logan to whom Biu*ns presented 
a copy ©f Beattie's Poems, with verses. The major was a 
capital violinist. 

Page 246. On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West Indies. — 
With the characteristic humour with which he wrote the elegy 
and epitaph of Thomas Samson and his own elegy, Burns wrote 
this address to himself, when he anticipated his departure fbi 
the West Indies, and before the brilliant career of his reception 
at Edinburgh had fixed his views as to life. 

Page 249. To a Haggis. — The haggis is a dish peculiar to 
Scotland, though supposed to be of French extraction. It is 
composed of minced offiil of mutton, mixed with oatmeal and 
suet, and boiled in a shee'p's stomach. When made in Elspa's 
way, with "a cum o' spice" (see the Gentle Shepherd), it is an 
agreeable, albeit a somewhat heavy dish, always providing that 
no horror be felt at the idea of its preparation. 

Page 270. Extempore to Captain Riddel, on returning a 
Newspaper. — Captain Riddel had, in the course of poring over 
a newspaper, fallen upon some critical remarks rcspet^ting some 
production of Burns, and had accordingly despatched the paper 
to the poet, that he might have an opportunity of observing 
what was said of him. And it was in returning this paper that 
Burns accompanied it with the comical note in verse, entitled 
an " Extempore to Captain Riddel." 

Page 273. Ode, Sacred to the Memory of 3Irs. Oswald. — 
" In January last, 1789, on my road to Ayrshire, I had to put 
up at Bailie Wigham's, in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in 
the place. The frost waa keen, and the grim evening and howl- 
ing wind were ushering in a night of snow and drift. My horse 
and I were both much fatigued with the labours of the day, 
and just as my friend the liailie and I were bidding defiance to 
the storm over a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantr}' 



3S0TES TO THE POEMS. 483 

of the late Mrs. Oswald ; and poor I am forced to brave all the 
terrors of the tempestuous night, and jade mj^ horse — my young 
favourite horse, whom I had just christened Pegasus — farther 
on through the wildest hills and moors of Ayrshire to the next 
inn ! The powers of poetry and prose sank under me when I 
would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good 
fire at New Cummock had so far recovered my frozen sinews, I 
sat down and wrote the enclosed ode." — Robert Bukns. 

Page 276. On seeing a Wounded Save limp hy me, tohicJi a 
fellow had just sJiot. — Mr. Cunningham mentions that the poor 
animal, whose sufferings excited this burst of indignation on the 
part of the poet, was shot by a lad named James Thompson, 
son of a farmer near Ellisland. Burns who was walking beside 
the Nith at the moment, execrated the young man, and spoke 
of throwing him into the water. 

Page 277. Muirland Jock. — Mr. John Shepherd, of Muir- 
kirk. The statistical account of Muirkirk, contributed by this 
gentleman to Sir John Sinclair's work, is above the average in 
intelligence, and very agreeably written. He hadj however, an 
unfortunate habit of saying rude things, which he mistook for 
wit, and thus laid himself open to Burns's satire, 

Page 280, Delia, — This small piece, which was an imitation, 
was forwarded to the Star Newspaper for publication in the 
month of May, 1789 ; and it was in recompense for this con- 
tribution, that Burns was put on the free list, and supplied with 
the paper gratuitously, which, however, he received very 
irregularly. In allusion to the very uncertain mtmner in which 
the paper was delivered to him, he addi'essed the subjoined lines, 
on one occasion, to the publisher : — 

Dear Peter, dear Peter, 

We poor sons of metre 
Are often negleckit, ye ken ; 

For instance, your sheet, man, 

Tho' glad I'm to see't, man, 
I get it no ane day in ten. 

Page 280. Sketch — JS'ew Year's Day — Mrs, Dunlop, 
daughter and heiress of Sir Thomas Wallace, of Craigie, and 
at this time the widow of John Dunlop, of Dunlop, in AjTshire, 
and resident at the last-mentioned place, became acquainted 
with Burns on the publication of his poems at Kilmarnock, and 
was ever after his steady friend. She was a woman of excellent 
understanding and heart, with a considerable taste for elegant 
literature. She died in 1815, at the age of eighty-four. 

Page 290, Oh for a throat like huge Mons-meg, — A piece ol 
ordnance, of extraordinary structure and magnitude, founded in 
the reign of James IV, of Scotland, about the end of the 
fifteenth century, and which is still exhibited, though in an 
infirm state, in Edinburgh castle. The diameter of the mouth 
is twenty inches. 

Page 291. The mujffled murtherer of Charles, — The execu- 
tioner of Charles I of England, who, as was the custom, was 
masked. 



iM I^OTES TO THE P0EX3, 

Pa^e 301 3Ionodi/ on a Ijadij famed for her Caprice, — The 
Maria of tliis -lanipooii, and that whicli follows, was Mrs. Riddel, 
of Woodlee park, a lady of poetical talent and taste, with whom 
the poet was generally on the best terms, bnt who had tempo- 
rarily repudiated him from her society, in consequence of an 
act of rudeness committed by him when elevated with liquor. 
She is the lady alluded to by Dr. Curric, of whom Burns, 
amongst his last days at Brow, asked if she had any commands 
for the other world, and who wrote the beautiful paper on his 
death, which first appeared in the Dumfries Joumalf and was 
afterwards transferred entire to Currie's IMemoir. 

Page 317. To Chloris. — The heroine of several of his songs. 
Her name was Jean Lorinier, her father being a farmer at 
Kemeyss-Hall, near Dumfi'ies. Burns seems to have formed 
an acquaintance with her during his sta}^ at Ellisland, as there 
is still a pane in the eastern room of that house, bearing her 
name, and that of her lover, John Gillespie, inscribed by her 
own hand, during a visit she paid there. She afterwards formed 
an unfortunate alliance with a Mr. Whelpdale, from whom she 
soon separated. At the time when the following stanzas were 
addressed to her, slie was living in retirement at Dumfries, 
under depression of spirits, the consequence of her recent 
domestic uuhappiness. Further information respecting this 
elegant but unfortunate woman is given elsewhere. 

Page 321. IFha will huy my troggin, — Troggin is a term 
applied in Scotland to the various wares carried about by 
hawkers, who, in the same provincialism, are called troggers. 

Page 322. The C7'est, an auld Crah-apjple, — Burns here 
aUudes to a brother wit, the Rev. Mr, Muirhead, minister of 
Urr, in Galloway, The hit applied very well, for Muirhead 
\vas a wind-dried, unhealthy looking little man, very proud 
of his genealogy, and ambitious of being acknowledged, on all 
occasions, as the chief of the Muirheads I He was not disposed, 
however, to sit down wdth the affront: on the contrary, he 
replied to it in a virulent diatribe, which may be presented as 
remarkable specimen of clerical and poetical iriitability ; and 
curious, moreover, as perhaps the only contemporary satire 
upon Burns of which the world has ever heard, except the 
immortal " trimming letter " from a tailor. Dr. Muirhead's 
^eu d' esprit is in the shape of a translation ti'om Martial's ode, 
Ad Yacerram. 

" Vacerras, shabby son of whore, 

Why do thy patrons keep thee poor ? 

Thou art a sycophant and traitor, 

A liar, and calumnator. 

Who conscience (hadst thou that) wouldst sell, 

Nay, lave the common sewers of hell 

For whisky. Like most precious imp, 

Thou art a ganger, rhymster, pimp. — 

How comes it, then, Va-cerras, that 

Thou still art poor as a church rat ? — 

CnAMBERS. 

Pago 327. Verses on the Destruction of the Woods near 
Drumlanrig . — The Duke of Queensberry stripped his domains 



NOTES TO THE POEMS. 485 

of Drumlanrig, in Dumfties-shire, and Neidpatli, in Pebbles- 
shire, of all the wood fit for being cut, in order to enrich the 
Countess of Yarmouth, whom he supposed to be his daughter. 

Page 328. On the Duke of Queensberr^. — Burns was one 
day beiLg rallied b}^ a friend for wasting his satirical shafts on 
persons, unworthy of his notice, and was reminded that there 
were such persons (distinguished by rank and circumstance) as 
the Duke of Queensberry, on whom his biting rhapsodies might 
more advantageously be expended. He imme'liately impro- 
vised these lines. 

Page 328. Impromptu on Willie Stewart. — " Sir Walter 
Scott possessed a tumbler, on which these lines written by 
Burns, on the arrival of a friend, Mr. W . Stewart, factor to a 
gentleman of Nithsdale. The landlady being very wrath at 
what she considered the disfigurement of her glass, a gentleman 
present appeased her by paying down a shilling, and carried off 
the relic." — Lockhaet. 

Page 329. Tibbie^ I licCe seen tlie Day, — ^According to Burns 
himself this song was written when he was about seventeen 
years old, in honour of a damsel named Isabella Steven, who 
lived in the neighbourhood of Lochlee. 

Page 330. Montgomery's Feggy. — The old ballad, Mo Millan's 
JPeggy, was the model of this song. The heroine of the piece 
was a young lady educated in a manner somewhat superior to 
the peasantry in general, and on whom Burns practised to dis- 
play his tact in captivating, until, by degrees, he fell in love in 
earnest, and then discovered that the object of this first sport, 
then earnest, was previously engaged. " It cost me," says he, 
some heartaches to get rid of the affair," 

Page 334. The Bigs o' Barley. — Anne Blair, and Anne 
Konald, daughters of farmers in Tarbolton parish, and the 
latter of whom became Mrs. Paterson, of Aikenbrae, have each 
been spoken of in their native district as the heroine of this song. 
The poet's famil}' v/as intimate with Mr. Ronald, when residing 
at Lochlee, and even after they had removed to Mossgiel. Mr. 
Gilbert Burns was at one time considered as a wooer of one of the 
Misses Bonald, We learn from Mr. Cunningham that Mr. 
Ronald liked the conversation of the poet very much, and would 
sometimes sit late with him ; on which one of the girls — ^probably 
not Anne — remarked that " she could na see aught about Robert 
Burns that would tempt her to sit up wi' him till twal o'clock at 
night." 

Page 335. Song Composed in August, — This song was com- 
posed in honour of Margaret Thompson, who lived in a cottage 
adjoining the Village School of Kirkoswald, where Burns was 
completing his education, when nineteen years old. Burnfi 
himself gives the following account of the matter : — This Miss 
Thompson afterwards married a Mr. Nielsen, and settled with 
him in the town of Ajt. " A charming fiUette," says Burns 
in speaking of her, " who lived next door to the school, overset 
my trigonometr}^, and sent me off at a tangent from the sphere 
of my studies. I, however, struggled on with my sines and 
cosines for a few days more ; but stepping into the garden one 

2e3 



486 NOTES TO THE POEMS. 

diarming noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met my angel, 



— — Like Proserpine gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower. 

It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The 
remaining week I staid I did nothing but craze the faculties of 
my soul about her, or steal out to meet her." 

Page 336. Yon Wild Mossy Mountains. — ■ " This tune is by 
Oswald ; and the words relate to some part of my private his- 
tory, which it is of no consequence to the world to know."— 

BUENS. 

Page 340. The highland Lassie. — ^The " Highland Lassie," 
celebrated in this song, was the Mary Campbell, to whom Burns 
was at one time engaged, and devotedly attached, and whose 
premature death, in fact, prevented her becoming Mrs. Burns. 

Page 344. The Braes o' Ballochmyle. — " Composed on the 
amiable and excellent family of Whitefoord's leaving Balloch- 
myle, when Sir John's misfortunes obliged him to sell the 
estate." — Buens. Maria was Miss Whitefoord, afterwards 
Mrs. Cranstone. The pm*chaser of the property was Claud 
Alexander, Esq., whose sister Burns has celebrated as the 
Bonnie Lass of Ballochmyle. 

Page 344. The Lass a* Ballochmyle. — The origin of this 
beautiful song was the accidental meeting of Miss Wilhelmina 
Alexander, in the grounds attached to the mansion of Balloch- 
myle, the property of her brother, Mr. Claude Alexander. The 
song was written in 1786, and immediately forwarded by Bums 
to Miss Alexander, whose delicacy kept it unknown for the time. 

Page 345. The Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast. — I com- 
posed this song as I conveyed my chest so far on the road to 
Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica, 
November, 1786). I meant it as a fai-ewell dirge to my native 
land."— BuENS. 

Professor Walker gives the following account relating to this 
song. " I requested him (Burns) to communicate some of his 
unpublished poems, and he recited his farewell song to the 
Banks of Ayr, introducing it with a description of the circum- 
stances under which it was composed, more striking than the 
poem itself. He had left Dr. Laurie's family, after a visit 
which he expected to be the last, and on his way home, had to 
cross a wide stretch of solitary moor. His mind was strongly 
affected by parting for ever with a scene where he had tasted so 
much elegant and social pleasure; and depressed by the con- 
trasted gloom of his prospects, the aspect of nature harmonised 
with his feelings; it was a lowering and heavy evening in the 
end of Autumn. The wind was up, and whistled through the 
rushes and long spear grass which bent before it. The clouds 
were driving before the sky; and cold pelting showers at 
intervals added discomfort of body to cbeerlessness of mind. 
Under these circumstances, and in this frame, Burns com- 
posed this poem. 

Page 346. The BanJcs o' Doow. — This song relates to an 
incident in real life. The unfortunate heroine was a beautiful 
woman, daughter to a landed gentleman of Carjick and niece 



NOTES TO THE POEMS. 487 

to the baronet. Her lover was a landed gentleman of Wigtonsliire. 
A motlier without the sanction of matrimony, and deserted by 
her lover, she died of a broken heart. On the subsequent death 
of her brother, her younger sister inherittyi the family propertj', 
but not without opposition from an unexpected quarter. Tho 
seducer and deserter of the deceased lady now appeared in a 
court of law, to endeavour to establish the fact of a secret 
marriage with her, so as to entitle him to suceeed to her 
brother's estate, as the father and heir of her deceased cliild^ 
whose claim, of course, would have been preferable to that of 
the younger sister, if his legitimacy could have been proved. 
In this attempt, the seducer, it is gratifying to add, was not 
successful. 

Page 347. ITFJiersons Farewell. — James Macpherson was 
a noted Highland freebooter, of uncommon personal strength, 
and an excellent performer on the violin. After holding the 
countias of Aberdeen, Banff, and Moray, in feaf for some years, 
he was seized by Duff, of Braco, ancestor of the Earl of Fife, 
and tried before the sheriff of Banffshire, (Xovember 7, 1700), 
along with certain gipsies who had been taken in his company. 
In the prison, while he lay under sentence of death, he composed 
a song, and an appropriate air, the former commencing thus : — 

"I've spent my time in rioting. 

Debauched my health and strength ; 
I squandered fast as pillage came, 
And fell to sham.e at length. 

But dantonly and wantonly, 

And rantonly I'll gae ; 
I'll plaj' a tune, and dance it roun', 
Beneath the gallows tree." 

Wlien brought to the place of execution, on the gallows-hill of 
Banff, (Nov. 16), he played the tune on his violin, and then 
asked if any friend present would accept the instrument as a 
gift at his hands. No one coming forward, he indignantly 
broke the violin on his knee, and threw awaj' the fragments ; 
after which he submitted to his fate. The traditionary accounts 
of ]\Iacpherson's immense prowess are justified by liis sword, 
which is still preserved in Duff" House, at Banff, and is an im- 
plement of great length and weight — as well as by his bones, 
which were found a few years ago, and were allowed b}^ all who 
saw them to be much stronger than the bones of ordinary men. 

The verses of Burns — -justly called by Mr. Lockhart "a grand 
lyric," — were designed as an improvement on those of the free- 
booter, preserving the same air. In the edition of the poet's 
works, superintended by Messrs. Hogg and Motherwell, (Glas- 
gow, 1834), the reader will fmd ample information on the 
subject of Macpherson and his " Kant." 

Page 349. The Banks of the Devon. — These verses were 
composed on a charming girl, a Miss Charlotte Hamilton, 
?/lio was since married to M'Kitrick Adair, Esq., physician. 
She is sister of my worUiy friend, G i v:n Hamilton, of M;iii. h- 
Ujo, and was born on the banks of Ayr, but was, at the time I 



488 NOTES TO THE POEMS. 

wrote these Hues, residing at Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, 
on the banks of the Httle river Devon." — IJuens. It was in 
the course of a sliort tour, in company with Dr. Adair, August, 
1787, that the poet saw Miss Hamilton, at Harvieston. Intro- 
ducing his fellow-traveller to the family, he was the means of 
bringing about an union, from which, says Mr. Adair, in 1830, 
*'I have derived, and expect to derive further happiness." 

Page 355. When Janimr' Wi?id. — In imitation of a song of 
which that consummate libertine, Charles II., was the hero. 

Page 358. Ane Fond Kiss. — These lines, wlrich were found 
amongst the papers of Mrs. McLehose, were evidentl}' addressed 
to her, and allude to the parting scene between the poet and 
his Clarinda. " These exquisite!}^ affecting stanzas contain the 
essence of a thousand love tales." — Sie Walter Scott. 

Page 360. Of a the Airts the Wind can Blaio. — The tune 
of this song was composed by Marshall, who for many years 
served in the capacity of butler to the Duke of Gordon, and to 
whose genius we are indebted for some of the most exquisite of 
Scottish airs. Of the words Burns gives t4ie following brief 
account. *' This song I composed out of comphmeut to Mrs. 
Burns. — N.B. It was the honeymoon." 

Page 362. To Mary in Heaven. — " This celebrated poem 
was composed by Burns, in September, 1789, on the anniversary 
of the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, 
Mary Campbell. According to Mrs. Burns, he spent that day, 
though labouring under cold, in the usual work of the harvest, 
andapparentl}'' in excellent spirits. But, as the twiHglit deepened, 
he appeared to grow ' very sad about something,' and at length 
wandered out into the barn-yard, to which his wife, in her 
anxietj', followed him, entreating him in vain to observe that 
irost had set in, and to return to the fireside.' On being again 
and again requestod to do so, he promised comphance — ])iit 
still remained where he was, striding up and down slowly, and 
contemplating the sky, which \\as singularh' clear and starry. 
At last Mrs. Burns found him stretched on a mass of straw 
contemplating a beautiful planet, 'that shone like anothet 
moon,' and prevailed on him to come in. lie immediately, on 
entering the house, called for his desk, and wrote, exactly as they 
now stand, with all the ease of one copying from memory, these 
sublime and pathetic verses." 



Abeigh. At a shy distance 

Abread. Abroad, in sight 

Abreed, In breadth 

Ae. One 

Aft. Oft 

Aften. often 

Agley. Off the right line, 

wrong 
Aiblins. Perhaps 
Airn. Own 
Aiver. An old horse 
Aizle. A hot cinder 
Alake. Alas 
Arent. Over against 
Ase. Ashes 

Asteer. Abroad, stirring 
Auldfarran, or Auldf arrant. 

Sagacious, cunning, prudent 
Ava. At all 

Awn. The beard of barley, &c. 
Awnie. Bearded 
Ayont. Beyond 

B. 

Ba'. Ball 

Backets. Ash board. 

Backlins. Comin', coming back 

Baide. Endured, did stay 

Baggie. The bell 

Bainie. Having large bones 

Ban. To swear 

Bane. Bone 

Bannock. A kind of thick cake 

Batts. Botts 

Baudrons. A cat 

Baws'nt. Stripe down the face 

Bear. Barley 

Beet. To add fuel to fire 

Belyve. By and bye 

Ben. In, inner room 

Beuk. A book 

Bicker. A kind of wooden dish 

Bie, or Bield. Shelter 

Bien, Wealthy, plentiful 

Bi^. To build 



Biggin. Building a house 
Biggit. Built 
BiU. AbuU 

BiUie. A brother, a youth 
Bing. A heap of grain 
Birk. Birch 
Birkie. A clever fellow 
Birring. The noise of par* 
tridges, &c. when they spring 
Bit. Crisis, nick of time 
Bizz. A bustle, to buzz 
Blastie. A term of contempt 
Blastit, Blasted 
Blate. Bashful, sheepish 
Blather. Bladder 
Blaud. A flat piece of any- 
thing, to slap 
Blellum. Idle, talking fellow 
Blether. To talk idly, nonsense 
Blink. A little while, a smiling 

look, to look kindly 
Blinker. A term of contempt 
Blue-gown. One of those beg- 
gars who get annually, on 
the king's birth-day, a blue 
cloak or gown, with a badge 
Blype. A shred, a large piece 
Bock. To vomit 
Bocked. Gushed, vomitted 
Bodle. A small old coin 
Boord. A board % 

Boortree. The shrub elder 
Bood, or buid. Behoved 
Botch. An angr-y tumour 
Bow-kail. Cabbage 
Bowt. Bended, crooked 
Brae.. A declivity, a precipice 
Brainage. To run rashly 
Brang't. Heeled forward 
Brash. A sudden illness 
Brats. Coarse clothes, rags, &c. 
Brattle. A short race, hurry 
Braxie. A diseased sheep 
Breckens. Fern 
Breef . An in vulerable, or irre- 
sistible spell 



^.!)0 



Brie. ,T;ilco, liquid 
Bri.L'-. A bridge 
Brock. A ]j;ul,i;xT 
Briiilzio. A l)roil,;iroin1)ustiou 
J>niiit. Did ]»iini, burnt 
]>rust. To burst, "burst 
Buchdu-buller.s. The boiling 
of the sea among the rocks 
Buirdlj\ Stout made 
Bum-clock. A humming bee- 
tle that flies in the summer 
i^rummle. To blunder 
Jiiunmiler. A blunderer 
Bunker. A window-seat 
Bure. Did bear 
But. Without 
Jjut an' ben. Outer and inner 

apartment 
Byke. A bee-hive 
]3yre. A cow stable, a shippen 

C. 

Caff. Chaff 

Caird. A tinker 

Cairn. A loose heap of stones 

Cannilie. Dextrously, gently 

Cantie, or canty, Cheerful, 
merry 

Cantrip. A charm, a spell 

Cr.reerin. Cheerfully 

Carl. An old man 

C^arlin. A stout old woman 

('astoL'k. Stalk of a cabbage 

Caudron. A cauldron 

Cauk and keel. Clialk and red 
clay 

Chaup. A stroke, a blow 

Cheekit. Checked 

Cheep. A chirp, to chirp 

Cliiel, orcheel. *A young fellow 

Chimla, or chimlie. A fire- 
grate, fire-place 

Chimla-lug. The fire-side 

Chuiile. Fat-faced 

Clachan. A small village 
jibout a church, a hamlet 

Clarkit. Wrote 

Clash. An idle tale, the story 
of the day 

Claught. Snatched at 

Claut. To clean, to scrape 

Clauted. Scraped 

Cleed. To clothe 

Ch.-ekit. Having caught 



Cliuk.-.mlxill. V/ho rings th»\ 

church bell 
Clips. SIkmvs 
Clishmaclaver. Idle talk 
Cloot. Tlie hooT of a cow, &c. 
Clootie. Old name lor the devil 
Clour. Swelling after a blov/ 
Coila. From KijJe, a district of 

. Ayrshire 
Collie. A general and some- 
times a particular name i'jx 
country curs 
Coof. A blockhead, a ninny 
Cookit. Appeared and dis- 
appeared by fits 
Coost. Did cast 
Coot or Kuit. The ankle 
Cootie. A wooden dish, fowls 

with feathered legs 
Corbies. A species of the crow 
Corn't. Fed with oats 
Couthie. Kind, loving 
Co we. To terri fy , to keep 'i nder 
Cowp. To barter, to tumble 

over, a gang 
Cowpit. Tumbled 
Cowte. A colt 
Crack. Conversation 
Frachin'. Conversation 
Craft or croft. A field 
Crambo-clink . or crambo-jingle. 

lihymes, doggerel verses 
Cranreuch. 1'he hoar frost 
C*ra]">. A croj), to crop 
Creel. A baslvct 
Crood, or croud. To coo 
Croon. A hollow moan 
Crouchie. Crook-backed 
Crowdie. A composition of 

oatmeal and boiled water 
Crammock. A cow \\\i\\ crook- 
ed horns 
Crump. Hard and brittle 
Crunt. A blow on the head 
Cuif. Blockhead, ninny 
Cummock. A short staff 
Curnmrring. IMurmurinsr 
Curpin. The crupper 

D. 

Daffin. Merriment 
D.iimen. Hare, n:)W and then 
Oaud. To thrasli, to abu-e 
Duur. To dare 



GLOSSAItT. 



401 



Dawd. A large piece 

Daurg, or daurk. A day's 

labour 
Dautit, or Dautefc. Fondled 
Deave. To deafen 
Deleerit. Delirious 
Diglit. Cleaned from chafi 
Dinna. Do not 
Ding. To worst, to push 
Dirl. A slight tremulous pain 
Disjaskit. Jaded, worn out 
Doited. Stupefied hebetated 
Donsie. Unlucky 
Dool. Sorrow ; to sing dool 
Dorty. Saucy, nice 
Dought. Was, or were able 
Doure. Stout, durable, sullen 
Dow. Am, or are able, can 
Dowff. Pithless, wanting force 
Dowie. Worn with grief 
Downa. Am, or are not able 
Dreigh. Tedious, long about it 
Droddum. The breech 
Drumly. Muddy 
Drummock. Meal and water 
Drunt. Pet, sour humour 
Dush. To push as a ram 
Dusht. Pushed by a ram, &c. 

E. 

Ee. The eye 
Een, The eyes 
Eerie. Frighted 
Eild. Old age 
Elbuck. The elbow 
Eldritch. Ghastly, frightful 
Ettle. To try, attempt 
Eydent. Diligent 

F. 

Faddom't. Fathomed 
Faiket. Unknown 
Fairin. A fairing, a present 
Farl. A cake of bread 
Fash. Trouble, care 
Fasten-e'en. I'asten even. 
Fawsont. Decent, seemly 
Feal. A field, smooth 
Feck. Many, plenty 
Feckfu'. Large, brawny, stout 
Feg. Fig 

Feid. Feud, enmity 
Fend. To live comfoi-tably 
Ferlie, or Ferley. To wonder 



Fient. Fiend, a pretty oath 

Fier. Sound, healthy 

Fisle. To fidget, to bustle 

Fleesh. A fleece 

Fleg. A random blow 

Fletherin. Flattering 

Flether. To decoy 

Fley. To scare, to frighten ' 

FUnders. Shreds 

FHsk. To fret at the yoke 

FHskit. Fretted 

Forbears. Forefathers 

Forbye. Besides 

Forfairn. Distressed, jaded 

Forjaskit. Fatigued, jaded 

Fou'. Full, dnmk 

Foughten. Troubled 

Fouth. Plenty, enough 

Fow. A bushel, &c. 

Fuff. To blow intermittently 

Fur. A furrow 

Fyke. Trifling cares 

Fyle. To soil, to dirty 

Fyl't. Soiled, dirtied 
G. 

Gae. To go ; gaed, went 

Garten. A garter 

Gar. To make, to force to 

Gash. Wise, sagacious 

Giucy. Jolly, large 

Gear. Riches, goods 

Geek, Toss the head iu scorn 

Ged. A pike 

Geordie. A guinea 

GiUie. Diminutive of gill 

Gin. If, against 

Glaikit. Inattentive, foolish 

Glaive. A sword 

Gleg. Sharp, ready 

Gley. A squint, to squint 

Gloaming. The twilight 

Graith. Accoutrements 

Greusome. Loathesomely 
H. 

Hafiet. The side of the head 

Hafflins. Nearly half 

Hag. A scaur gulf in moss€« 
and moors 

Hallan. A partition wall 

Haggis. A kind of minced 
pudding, boiled in the sto- 
mach of a cow or sheep 

Ham. Very coarse Huen 



40? 



GLOSSAEY. 



Hauglis. Low-lying lands 
Haurl. To drag, to peel 
Haverel. A half-witted person 
Havins. Good manners 
Hawkie. Cow with white face 
Hech ! Oh ! strange 
Hecht. Foretold 
Heugh. CrasT, a coal-pit 
Hilch. A hobble, to halt 
Hirple. To walk lamely 
Histie. Dry, chapt, barren 
Hool. Outer-skin, or case 
HooHe. Slowly, leisurely 
Host, or hoast. To cough 
Hotch'd. Turned topsy-turvy 
Houghmagandie. Something 

improper 
Hov'd. Ileav'd, swelled 
Howdie. Midwife 
Howe. A hollow or dell 
Howebackit. Sunk in the back 
Howk. To dig 
Howkit. Digged 
Hoyse. To pull upwards 
Hoyte. To amble crazily 
Hughoc. Diminutive of Hugh 
Hurchoon. A hedgehog 
Hurdles. The loins 

I. 

Icker. An ear of corn 
ler-oe. A great-grandchild 
Ingine. Genius, ingenuity 
Ingle. Fire, fire-place 

J. 

Jauk. To dally, to trifle 
Jaukin'. Trifling, dallying 
Jaup. A jerk of water 
Jaupit. Soiled with mud 
Jillet. A giddy girl, a jilt 
Jink. To dodge 
Jocteleg. A kind of knife 
Jouk. To stoop 
Jow. To jow; a verb which 

includes motion and pealing 

sound of a large bell 
Jam lie. Muddy 
Jundie. To justle 

K. 

Kae. A daw 

Kail. A kind of broth 

Kail-ruut. Stem of colewort 



Kain. Fowls, &c., paid as rent 
Kebbuck. A cheese 
Keek. A peep, to peep 
Kenuin. A small matter 
Ktt. IMatted, hairy 
Kiurgh. Carking, anxiety 
Kilt. To truss up the clothea 
Kimmer. A young girl 
Kin'. Kind 

Kirn. The harvest supper 
Knaggle. Like knags 
Kno we. A small round hillock 
Kuittle. To cuddle 
Kuittlin'. To cuddle 
Kye. Cows 

L. 

Laigh. Low 

Lallans. Lowland dialec 

Lampit. Shell-fish 

Lan'. Land, estate 

Lane. Lone, lane, thy lane, &c. 

Laverock. The lark 

Leal. Loyal, true, faithful 

Leeze me. I am happy in thee 

Lilt. A ballad, to tune 

Lift. Sky 

Limmer. A kept mistress 

Linn. A waterfall 

Lintwhite, lintie. A linnet 

Loan. The place of milking 

Loof. The palm of the hand 

Loot. Did let 

Looves. The plural of loat 

Lum. The chimney 

Lunt. A column of smoke 

Luntin'. Smoking 

Lyart. Of a mixed colour 

M. 

Maun. Must 
Melvie. To soil with meal 
Mense. Good mannei-s 
Merle. The blackbird 
Messin. A small dog 
Midden. A dunghill 
]\Iim. Prim, affectedly, meek 
MislearM. Mischievous 
Moop. To nibble as a sheep 

N. 

Nappy. Brisk ale, to be tipsy 
Niffer. A n exchange, to barter 
Nit. A nut. 







. 

GLOSSAEY. '^•^"' 






0. 


Rung. A cudgel 






Ourie. Shivering, drooping 


Runt. Stem of a cabbage 




» 


Outlers. Cattle not housed 


S. 






Owre. Ovre, too 


Sark. Shirt 






P. 


Saugh. Willow 






Painch. Pannch 


Saumont. Salmon 






Paitrick. A partridge 


Scone. A thin cake of bread 






Pang. To cram 


Screed. A rent, to tear 






Pauky. Cunning, sly 

Pech. To fetch the breath short 


Scrieve. To glide swiftly 
Scrimp. To scamp 






Pechan. The crop, the stomach 


Scunner. To loatlie 






Pine. Pain, uneasiness 


Shaird. A shred 






Placad. Public proclamation 


Sheugh. A ditch, a sluice 






Plackless. Penniless 


Shog. To push off on one side 






Pliskie. A trick 


Shool. A shovel 






Poussie. A hare, or eat 


Shore. To threaten 






Preen. A pin 


Skellum. A worthless fello\v 






Prent. Printing 


Skelp. To strike, to slap, to 






Prie. To taste 


walk with a tripping step 






Priggin'. Cheapening 


Skeigh. Proud, high-mettl<<ii 






Primsie. Demure, precise 


Skirling. Shiieking, cryinp; 






Provoses. Provosts 


Sklent. Slant, to run aslant 
Skreigh. To scream 






Q. 


Slee. Sly, sleest, slyest 






Quat. To quit 


Sleekit. Sleek, sly 






Quak. To quake 


Sliddery. Shppery 






R 


Smeddum. Dust, powder 






Smoor. To smother 






Raible. To rattle nonsense 


Snash. Low abuse 






Ramfeezl'd. Fatigued 


Sued. To lop, to cut off 






Ram-stam. Thoughtless 


Sneeshin. Snuff 






Ratton. A rat 


Snell. Sharp, biting 






Raucle. Bash, stout, fearless 


Snick. The latchet of a door 






Raught. Reached 


Snoove. To go smoothly 






Rax. To stretch 


Snowk. To scent as a dog 






Ream. Cream, to cream 


Sonsie. Sweet looks, jolly 






Reaming. Brimful, frothing 


Soom. To swim 






Keck. To heed 


Souple. Flexible, swift 






Rede. Counsel, to counsel 


Souter. A shoemaker 






Red-wud. Stark mad 


Sowp. A spoonful 






Ree. Half tipsy, in high spirits 


Sowth. To try over a tune 






Reisle. A rousing 


Sowther. Solder, to soVj.&' 






Rest. To stand restive 


Spae. To prophesy 






Rief. Reef, plenty 


Spaul. The loin bone 






Rip. Handful of unthrashed 


Spairge. To dash, to soil 






corn 


Spaviet. Having the spavin 






Riskit. Noise like the tearing 


Speat. A sweeping torrent 






of roots 


Speel. To climb 






Roon. A shred 


Spence. The parlour in a 






Roopit. Hoarse with cold 


country house 






Row. To roll, or wrap 


Spier. To ask, to inquire 






Rowte. To low, to bellow 


Spleucl||n, A tobacco pouch 






Rozet. Rosin 


Sprattfe. To scramble 
2s 



494 



GLOSSAET. 



Squattle. To spiuwl 
Staclier. To stagger 
StHumrcl. A blockhead 
Staw. Did steal, to surfeit 
Stech. To cram the belly 
Steek. To shut, a stitch 
Steer. To molest, to stir 
SteU. A still 
Sten. To l<oniid, or rise 
Sten't. Reared 
Steuts. Dues of any kind 
Stey. Steep, steepest 
Stick an' Stow. Altogether 
Stimpart, The eighth part of 

a Winchester bushel 
Stirk. A cow a year old 
Stoor. Sounding hollow 
Stoure. Dust in motion 
Stowlins. By stealth 
Stroan. To spout 
Studdie. An anvil 
Swaird. Sward 
Swat. Did sweat 
Swatch. A sample 
Swats. Drink, good ale 
Swith. Get away 

T. 

Tangle. A sea- weed 
Tapetless, Heedless, foolish 
Tarry-breeks. A sailor 
Taupie. A thoughtless girl 
Teat. A small quantity 
Tent. To take heed 
Thairms. Small guts 
Tliraw. To sprain, to twist 
Thud. Loud intermittent noise 
Tine. To lose ; tint, lost 
Tip. A ram. 
Tittle. To whisper 
Tocher. A marriage portion 
Tod. A fox 
Toom. Empty 
Toun. A hamlet, a farm-house 
Tout. The blast of a horn 



Twin. To part 
Tyke. A dog 

W. 

Wair. To lay out, to expend 
Wale. Choice, to choose 
Wal'd. Chose, chosen 
Walie. Ample, large, jolly 
Wanchansie. Unlucky 
Wastricc Prodigality 
Wattle. A twig, a wand 
Wauble. To sing, to reel 
Waukrife. Not apt to sleep 
Weet. Eain, wetness 
Wliaizle. To wheeze 
Wheep. To fly nimbly 
Whid. Alio 

Whitter. A draught of liquor 
Whunstane. A whinstane 
Whyles. Sometimes 
Withoutten. Without 
Wanrestfu'. Restless 
Wat. Wet; I wat, I know 
Wiel. A small whirlpool 
Wimple. To meander 
Winze. An oath 
Wiss. To wish 
Wordy. Worthy 
Worset. Worsted. 
Wrack. To tease, to vex 
Wud. Mad, distracted 
Wumble. A wimble 
Wyhecoat. A flannel vest 
Wyte. Blame, to blame 

Y. 

Yearns. Longs much 

Yerk. To lash, to jerk 

Yill. Ale 

Yird. Earth 

Yokin. Yokin, about 

Yont. Beyond 

Yowe. An ewe 

Yowie. Diminutive of } owe 

Yule, Christmas 



607 



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